I haven’t been washing my grapes before I eat them.
Maybe I’ll die from pesticide-poisoning. Maybe.
They’re red. Not purple or green. Medium sized.
On branches. Because that’s how they come.
Like clothes come on hangers, like hangers — hangmen
come on gallows with black robes that billow
in the cinema, something like their souls must be
supposed to be. Do they wash their grapes?
Does it matter, or will they fall through the hole
from under which they pull the slickish foothold?