the conversation moves indoors, the sun

fallen below the yardarm, that is to say the highest

reaching branches, 'it's five o'clock somewhere,'

says colin's grandfather, 'and that is time enough for me.

come, you gypsies, you jacobins, you twitters,

make an old man a whiskey and branch water,’

as the three of us make our way from the dry creek,

up the trail, through the vineyard, to the stone steps

leading to the stone house, to the stone floor,

to the stone hearth, to the raw wood walls, to the vaulted

and beamed, rough-hewn ceiling, to the woolen

and loomed native throw rugs, to the heavy mission

furniture, to his throne, a massive leather chair,

symbol of hearth and home and goddamn. his once

formidable weight, gone the way some men's heft

turns to gristle, settles in as it has for four score and some.

'whiskey!' colin pours an immodest three fingers

into a stout tumbler, over three, not four, cubes 

of spring water ice, as the 'branch' is but a notion,

and for us, he puts the kettle on for tea, to an audible

'harrumph' from the old man. he sips. he says,

'goddamn, it only gets better,' falling silent, waiting

for one of us to say something profound or stupid,

either way, an opening, for he has a gambit,

always, a steel trap gone rusty with slack usage,

his loneliness showing, sometimes, as when the evening

falls to night, and the ghosts come out, but not now.

now he's feeling fresh from the air and the walk

and having his grandson come to visit and show off

this old man and his vineyards and his fortress 

to this young woman, 'ha!' says he. 'you people think

you invent everything,' and we do, we forget there was time

before us, and there may be time after us. colin and i

sit in leather chairs on the opposite side of the old man,

the three chairs angled toward the hearth, a hearth

large enough to roast a pig on spit, should one so desire.

'talk to me!' comes the command, 'tell me something

i don't know!' there is a challenge that begs sarcasm,

but i haven't the balls for it, and no mistake, but i laugh

nonetheless at his, be they brass or useless 

as last season's hickory hulls, but i laugh to myself,

and scan the database of my mind for a topic, looking

for help in colin's direction, but he's smiling as if to say,

'you're up, it’s show and tell.' i say, 'how 'bout those forty-niners?'

'that bunch of pissants . . . ' and he's off for a minute or two,

which let's me formulate a plan of my own. i come up empty.

i stumble about, asking about his wine, his grapes, his this,

his that, showing my ignorance until he can take it no more.

'i asked you to tell me something i don't know.'  

'keats was a radical,' i say, ‘a revolutionary, an insidious

thorn in the tories' belly, a hot-poker to their eyes,

a bloomed-cheeked, bow-lipped subversive, an admirer

of robin hood and greek love, a peasant doctor reviled

by the powers who quaked before the prospect, the reality,

of revolution!' say i, 'he was the anti-wordsworth,

the people's byron. he carried the white banner, he searched

for true love, and like odysseus in his tent, he sulked

when he couldn't find it, and when he found it, he died!'

colin is chuckling heartily. the days are short at this 

time of year. it is fully dark, the mullioned windows black,

reflecting the light from the iron and antlered

chandelier high above our heads. the old man looks

at me. 'i didn't know that,' he says, and colin licks 

his index finger and draws a '1' in the air before him.

queen takes pawn. the night is young and the company

is good, and i'm happy to be away from the city, happy

to be sitting in a world i didn't know existed, a world 

outside of my ken, a world away from the world,

made of lumber and rock and leather, held together

by sweat and love, and now loneliness, as year after year

the old man survives his wife's passing and children's

distance, heartened by colin's frequent visits, by this

silly girl-woman before him spouting incoherence.

unsatisfied with his admission, he moves his knight,

'keats!' he says. 'i knew keats! i dated his sister! 

revolutionary! bullshit! you want to talk about revolutionaries,

talk about ole tom paine, now there was a drinking man!'

yenny comes in with a tray of salmon and lemon and bread

toasted brown and hard. colin introduces us. 'yenny,

this is my friend lynn, lynn this is yenny.’ it is the briefest, 

and most inadequate introduction, but i know the story 

is long and rich. colin has told me much about her

and how her family helped build the vineyard from 

an arid piece of california ground. colin gets up, 

taking the tray from yenny, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

this is old school. yenny says, 'dinner in a few minutes,'

and leaves, and yes, this is old school, but this is also

rough and tumble. i may not know much, but these people

built a life, built a world. i know enough about it 

to know the old man and colin's grandmother started

with nada, as in nada thing but sinew and no choice.

i know enough to know that family extends beyond blood,

that what i'm seeing is something i'm unlikely to see again.

that revolution works in different ways. there is the way

of the white banner, the way of the rainbow banner,

and there is the way of time, and i am seeing the way of time.

even if colin inherits this, all of this, it will be impossible

to replicate this life. it, the world, has become a science.

sinew and no choice isn't enough. it takes a database,

an accountant, a sales rep, a murder of lawyers. the old man 

long ago turned the operation over to a manager,

and this house, old and solid, is the dividend. what colin

will find, and i know this because i have eyes, is a

twenty-first century version of this, and it will look different.

that is revolution. colin gets up again, makes, or builds, 

as bond james bond would say, another drink for the old man.

for the two of us, he opens a bottle of the family wine,

blood red, dry, with hints of . . . who am i kidding. it's red.

of all the men i know, outside of my family, i love colin the most. 

i trust him. his eyes are light blue and honest. his hair 

is brown leaning toward blonde, and long, but unaffectedly so.

he's tall and lean and solid. he favors flannel shirts

untucked over his jeans. he has an easy way about him,

but shy, as if he doesn't know how handsome he is.

when he reads his poetry aloud he reads it undramatically,

in a quiet voice, a little unsure, totally unpracticed.

he is gentlemanly in a world that tends to slap a man

upside the head for gentlemanliness. he has a good soul,

and if it should come to pass that all this, this world,

falls into his lap, he has the depth to make it work.

more importantly, he loves the place. as we were walking

the rows of vines he would unconsciously, or consciously,

reach down for a handful of dirt, and rub it between

his hands, and bring it to his nose. he knows this place.

he's worked here, summers, vacations, all his life.

it's his world, too. if he wants it. i wonder, does he have

the soul of a poet, of a businessman, an agrarian?

for myself, i hope to find a cubicle, a desk and chair,

a computer in front of me. that will be my inheritance.

i have no ambition beyond that, that and a roof

over my head, and a room with a closet, and clothes 

in the closet, and kitchen to make soup, and a wall 

full of books, and a bedroom, and a bed, and someone 

whose looks and curves and smell i know and love, 

who loves me for the same reasons, to share the bed.

that's more than enough. any more is clutter.

i wouldn't know what to do with a world this large.

the old man asks me about my family. i give him

the outline, but it lacks drama. it's a common tale,

but we are a family, and i emphasize that. my father

loves baseball, that sort of thing. he works hard.

he worries too much. my mother is an artist, she paints

and does ceramics. she cooks dinner every night.

my brother is tall and thin as a rail and the kindest

human being i've ever known, and the most vulnerable.

we have a cat named ralph. we had a dog. we had

five dogs. they died, one by one by one by one by one,

is that five? no more dogs for a while. we live

someplace unexceptional. we like art fairs in the summer.

we like the beach on cold days, lord knows why. 

i don't say this, i think it. i do say, 'i think my great

grandfather worked on farm when he was a boy. a ranch.

'which is it?' the old man says. 'farmers grow crops. 

ranchers raise cattle. one wears a cap, the other wears a hat.

it can't be both.' i think back. my great grandfather

on the paternal side was a jeweler. he had a shabby shop

on the wrong side of town, but i remember a story

he told of working on a farm one summer, something

about hay and cows. 'ranch,' i say. all of a sudden

the long drive, the sun, the walk, the conversation,

the wine, hits me and i can't think anymore. i look at colin,

eyes pleading, 'help!' colin nods. ‘it's dinner time,

poppa. lynn and i are going to wash up. get i get you anything?’

i splash cold water on my face, avoiding the mirror

as i do. it's all so strange. how did keats know so much

at such a young age? why did the elgin marbles

mean so much to him? was it sexual? why is his poetry 

so misunderstood?—and all of it in four or five years.

i brush my hair back into a ponytail. i'm quiet,

i'm listening, i'm waiting to feel that feeling i get.

i'm patient. i know it will come. my thoughts turn to her,

her words. there. there it is. it's a tingling, it's deep.

i don't understand the world. i don't understand myself.

but i understand this feeling. maybe keats had this feeling, 

or maybe it's why endymion went into a sulk. maybe he was 

searching for the feeling. i don't have to search, i have it, 

it's all pervasive. it's in my arteries and veins and capillaries, 

it reaches every part of my body, and hugs me when i'm cold,

i think of her—do i have time?—no, dinner must be ready,

and i must plot my next move, the night is ahead, 

and i suspect there will be much more conversation.

but i hope colin asks me to go for a moonlight drive,

whether there is moonlight or not, and we can 

talk about keats, and maybe i'll ask him if he knows

any ghosts, and if he does, i'll tell him about my ghost.