Above an orange rim of sky, this grape
with seeds that nip it round--flecks
on a face, gnats in the eye
of a Galilean treading the early world,
as the gilded heart breaks down
and falls into an endless cloud
skimpy on top but thickening, compunction
furrowing its brow, the wrench of loss--
was this the way the parents went?
Kids spin their wheels on emptiness,
seen through a glass, vexations fade
as the aging world lifts up its chin.
Your fickle life--already gone, done in
by Venus snaggled on a nearby branch,
the season of exile beginning again.