2. Consider how very much like blood grape juice is as you press it and it runs thick and black down your forearms. You press and you wring and the skinned boundaries break: this sacrifice, this one being, this streaming extravagance.
3. There is always more than enough.
4. Crabapples ping hard like stones into the bucket; roll soft like ruptured golden eyeballs in the boiling water; strain viscous and pink like the unseen imagined smooth walls of your gut, pouring into the bowl of your hips, curdling into intestines and setting into kidneys, liver, heart.
5. As the liquid boils into jelly and vapor coats the kitchen windows, lament the loss of the hearth as an architectural cornerstone. Had you had it, this pot could sit over embers or hang over licking tongues, and the whole house huddled close could cook stories told, songs sung, lessons taught, mysteries mulled into one solid translucent belly, hipped by flagstones, ribbed by stone walls, capped by a throat of brick singing smoky songs into the chill and darkening rare twilight air of autumn.
6. Notice how unnoticed you are, you and your friends on the side of the busy throughway with your five gallon buckets collecting crabapples and wild grapes. How much do you weigh in the bucket of the world's attention? Go on inconspicuous, picking at the edges of the unseen, gorging satisfied and joyous in the slips and oversights of a busy world.