Archive for December 9, 2012


We could argue with words,
bare footed, smashing grapes
to make wine between our toes,
splashing the purple juices
over our white clothes,
jumping up and down,
crushing the fruit.
We could argue like that,
you and I, but the result
was always a good vintage.

No it’s not lonely to be here alone in
a bed of marbles, pillows made of stone and
I feel no cold nor do I shiver much
remembering your hands and touching.
No it’s not lonely to be here alone at all.

You could always lift me
pregnant as I was
even up the stairs.
No I don’t miss you,
not every day,
only when it is time
to yield the fruit,
to smash the grapes,
to make good wine.
We were good vintage.

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