Ganymede mounted the dung beetle.
Iridescent towards heaven they rose,
Flitting splay-wings: blue-black, green-gold
In bracing night-breeze the wincing
Stars shone on the boy who dreamed of bruised grapes.
He dreamed of their leaves and dreamed of their pulp.
There would be grapes in heaven unlike
The grapes on earth, its nectar sloshing in flagons,
Kraters filled to the brim, Among
filigreed thrones of solid white-gold,
ensconced in gathering ether.
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