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,
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