A vintner of aged leaves in the wine-press of the sun, Thin-skinned like the lucent grapes from the vine-runs Of the island trellises and teal-cordoned waves, lowest slung Fruit-laden bough of sky, Sicily, whose ateliers of rolled cigarettes And uprolled sleeves like tides tease smoke into studio paints, The black apple wine of storm made into mouthfuls of pulp rain, Before the sunrise is gathered again in fishing nets and crab pots, The coastal towns with their salted roofs of pied clay and pigeons Along the lava stone streets, and night from the chanteuse of Egypt, Singing her coral to heron, as when her bird-like barefooted slaves Left tracks across Old Kingdom wastes, so this dreaming old man Leaves his wrinkles to these grapes and across the sand-island pillow, Asleep with his fathers, hay-hauling peasants of wandering darkness.
We sunk into barrels that smelled almost too strongly of wine that was almost too old. The grapes they were made of sat squished between our toes. We weren’t wrong anymore. Nobody was wrong anymore and it was being right in the thick of it that made us so strong. Our car used to be blue, we think. It’s turned into a sickly orange but at least it matches the sky. We look for pictures in the cloudy bumps of the metal. There’s never anything left in the stores except Scrub Daddy brand sponges and glimpses of Mr. Clean’s face. Nobody needs to bleach their bathtub anymore. They’re all yellow. We try to guess what kind of fruit lies beneath that shivering hunk of mold. I’d always wondered if something that was burnt could burn more. “I think that it depends on how burnt it got the first time,” you say as you peel off the charred top layer, “and on how you try to shake it off.” We’re both nodding as the minnows nip our toes, and prove to us that maybe we aren’t the only ones with too many mouths.