Writing
is like shooting lice
off a bear
at forty paces

The questions are grapes
none of them more than a skin
wrapped around a juicy core
draped in bunches
as high and far-reaching as
vines

All tickle your eyes
fill your brain with sweet mist
colorful wet sugary unknowns
swaying just near

Pick the wrong one, the one that stings
sour
and catch your breath
as the whole vineyard rattles
with the girth of the bear

bawling, scratching
to feast and rest

It would be something
to know that creature
intimately

to have that kind of aim

to always pick the sweetest
grape.