This is another poem from 1984. August, I think. I wasn't dating poems individually at the time. I thought it odd to date a poem when like as not I would make changes to it. To be consistent oughtn't one date every change? These days I write the date before I begin the poem and it's not so much to fix the poem to a particular date as it is to restrain its free floating. It doesn't really matter, does it? It's a way to impose some order, if arbitrary.
I like this one for its quietness and some interesting details, like the grape skins. I'm a bit put off by the poet's attitude, which, I think, is one of the reasons I didn't put a (*) by it. There are a few stars in the notebook and they indicate which poems I would read out at the local poetry series. But it's okay not to like a narrator if what he says is interesting. I'm posting this one with an eye to revision. Primarily I see myself cutting it. I've been told I can cut the heart out of old work. That's the risk, I guess.
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