On perils and grapes

your skin grows in my hands,/ like an orange peels itself into the hands of children

then every object I touch is softer,/ each of them has margins of whisper

in every object your skin grows,/ your fingers are like table legs

the smoke of your cigarette is growing like a vine into my kitchen

your hands go around the coffee cup and the chair,/ and grapes grow into your hair

then your skin smells like a cheap wine. (10th of May 2010)

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