Peel the flesh off the grape.
Feel the zip-locked-fresh villain,
the ghost, the capture of a vineyard,
the trance of purple vines in purple fields
under purple skies.
At dusk, we will only be royal–
a company of amethysts, well-hung.
Rich, yes we are, hanging, and raisining
in our pursuit, in our avarice.
Still, they will not love us less.
The human apprentice could learn
something from wines.