the taste of grapes

There is still the taste of grapes

There is still the taste of grapes,
the burst skin
against tongue tip and palate;

and the animal print on this throw,
releasing its slow warmth
over the worn out body

the early evening silence as
You hold the remote, rest
your finger on its plausibilities

-moving pictures, boxed.
Your folded papers with their negatives
and shut-down statements, shelved.

The world is like this,
fearfully various. Wounded:
Money talking over metaphor.

You flick on a drama
where the good guy fights
the demons of possession.

The grapes taste sweet,
like sanctity, defiant in the dusk.