VESPERS

September 30, 2018 / John Grimmett

There was a time I imagined you,
and I planted a seed
within the dark, deep country
in the middle of winter
just to see if you would survive the snow.

Nothing grew.
You cannot exist,
but I still see your face,
a fragile grape
made into sour wine.

Should justice walk
hand in hand
with figs
(and I am a fig),
no one will bear fruit more than us,
no one will feed more crowds of thousands
than you and me.

Yet, I will drink you in,
sour immortality,
and I shall not abstain from
some perishable belief
that perception is everything,
that the truth borrows a favorite shirt from mendacity
and spills black ink all over the front
and only after scrubbing it
and scrubbing it for hours on end
does the fool realize
it isn’t ink

but blood.

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