*

Row after row

--it’s your usual vineyard

overrun the way mourners

 

will always lean too far

are already in clusters

holding on to a stone

 

as if a sharper knife

could fall through

and deep inside each vine

 

leave no one to walk past

though you come for work

with wobbling fingers

 

that no longer make you sad

--you pluck each pebble

trying not to touch the dead

 

show up as if they

would never let you leave

with nothing in your mouth

 

except as some seedling

just planted and on your lips

the dirt is somehow sweeter

 

growing itself into arms

and legs and kisses, by now

even in winter the stars.

 

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