Modern Beauties

Bunches of grapes, clear.

Clearer than the little plate they run around.

I arrived at this place in order to disappear completely from the crumbed-mouthed person, lost in glitches — mosquito on the wall counting —

I would have continuously met at home.

I can tell of course the parallelism of the green.

But it's better to be here, it's better today.

Milk flowing like ancient wine, brown and woody, as I collapse my elbows on the dirty table.

The waitress didn't take away the cup,

the glass, the bottle, here before me.

I push them to a corner and add to the crumb chatter and clattering of glasses, like this little plate, run with grapes, soiled

with flakes and splatters of iced latte.