ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS
Sequence: 4
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