IRA JOE FISHER
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In a Lovely Vineyard By the Lake

I’m shaking. I push my nose
into the cold, clotted dirt,
hairy and smelling like wind in a cave.
My stomach and legs grind into the ground.

A man yells—I see a smudge of moon
thin and white along his gun barrel, still smoking
and aimed above the ditch where I lie.
Apparently, he owns the grapes I’ve stolen.

In September at the shore
of this good lake are the good grapes,
heavy, blue-clouded
and waiting to be conquered

by a farmer or a thief.
He has a hoe, a rake, shears to snip
the crippled vine. And a gun.
I only have a sack from the grocery

where I bought bread and cheese
and spicy slices of meat and where,
if I’d known I’d be shot at in a vineyard,
I would’ve bought grapes.