We move slow and there are grapes

drying in the sun, sweet

on the front of everything.

We fumble keychains of where we are,

in the shop and

there’s the maze and the quest

of pull or

follow

and I’ve to tell you a way

to justify my presence but you

are real, and I

forgetful.

Drink an ouzo mouth, brush

the donkey long.

I can’t cry but he can, we do.