Grapes grow up a difficult and 
sloped terrain. A soft line of poplars 
shimmers in the disappearing light. 
At midnight, the poor move 
into the train stations of Italy, 
spread out blankets for the children, 
and pretend to the police they have tickets 
and are waiting for a train.

The statue of Bacchus is a contrast 
with his right hand holding a shallow but 
wine-brimming cup. His left hand 
reaches easily into the cornucopia
where grapes ripen and burst open.
It is a vivid dream: to wake 
from the statue’s grace and life force 
to the suffering in the streets.

But the truth is the cornucopia 
is open to all who are alive, 
who look and feel the world in 
its pristine beauty—as a dragonfly 
hovering in the sunlight over clear
water; and who feel the world 
as a luminous world—as green plankton 
drifting at night in the sea.