from The Sky

11. Jean Cocteau likes grapes.  Likes the thought of grapes, their form in his mind somehow congruent with salves, or the slavish poetics he tallies: sacs; blooming along the trellis in leprous overabundance. There are no grapes in Northeast Ohio, at least not last night, when walking the length of Cooper Foster Park Road, Sheffield to Lorain, I saw a deer staring through live mists of an empty field.  It was right across the street from where my father’s buried.  A road there can veer off into these stoned histories, and Jean can’t.