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.
