She squeezes the grape, rolling and crushing
until it is seed and skin and pulp and wet
spread on her palm,

She reads the mess like tea leaves
or the entrails of a goat.

She sighes,
brushes it off on a pants leg,
and does not reach for another too quickly,

for she has a whole bag,
and I and the bench the whole day for her.

We can always catch the world
when it comes back around again.