4-17-10

Plump white grapes
hanging on the wall
somewhere east of easy

Dew,
like moss
wet paint
on shining blades of night grass

The door is heavy
but it is open
I sit here on the step
bare feet in the dirt
unpolished nails
waiting this side of sunrise
for the day to begin.

The wine is getting cold
it's time for coffee

Steam bursts out of me
on condensed breath
like rough noise from God's throat.