AMETHYSTS, WELL-HUNG

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.

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