10/20/97 steadily consuming the purple sweetness of concord grapes I wait for the air to turn colder and the bones of the forest to declare themselves to my hungering eye I am stilled into the songs of wanderers I move so little I know what it must be to have no home and fill the role of stranger to strangers who lend and borrow the tunes I can get only so far from the arbor where I first learned to pierce grapes with my tongue I am strange even to myself and hope for a wind that will strip me to bones I can finally recognize