This poem is taken from Stand 221, 17(1) March - May 2019.

Pat Winslow Three Poems
The Season of the Grapes

A man sleeps in the yard
with a rifle across his knees.

The season of grapes
is ripe with shadows.

Beyond the ticking
and sawing of insects

is a table of dreams
laid with a white cloth.

In the corner, near the hem,
a purple fingerprint.

Evidence. How a poem
can be twisted and turned,

how an insult can spread and sour
and make the air itself tremble.

Nothing escapes these walls,
Searching, please wait... animated waiting image