Drupe

at the deep end there’s lazy morning kites
like minnows in a stream of plush rivulets 
of early fog on a bus. a gust of wind-
that rain comes 
from…

but tomorrow’s rain.

and everywhere 
kites.

II

now we bivouac in the fruit basket 
of our least contempt.
where the wine is Jupiter fizz
without the oaky nose
where the cheese is imported
from deported farms
with green eyes 
and so many 
heartaches 
to smile 
from.

like a cricket with a song 
made out of cricket 
songs.

like the last grape
to sound like
sweet.