Nowadays the vines are
mulling their own,
backwashing blackberries
for reprieve. Wine-drunk
they curl like tongues licking
at the back of the throat for a little
taste of themself, flavor already
aftertaste. The drupelets’ sable skin,
having been pinched by fever,
pucker and relent
to transformation without question.
I’m trying too.
I’m learning things are variable, change.
Must and do. In my right hand, a glass eyes
the happing sun with a purple glare.
Certain angles reveal themselves as artifacts
of another angle—angels and sun halos.
Red going amber. Black streaking blue. Who am I
in this light? Radiant and unsure.
Off the porch and in the distance, hay bales
are grazing on their own stoicism, oval shadows
suggesting tired, suggesting settled, suggesting, well.
Just that. Bottle halfway
to empty, I was waiting
on an hour where things are fixed, god honest
and their own namesake.
There is no time. I am
in my spring years. Nothing like I was
but becoming. And see? Outside,
the blue hour
is going under. Dawn.
