From the Archives...

In the Vineyard

Sipping on the
eve of good
years, swirls of
coulds decant
smoky burls, long
thick legs and the arm.

Drunken bliss with a
wide-eyed finish, I see
my young words ripen slow;
In the vineyard, where my fruit
still grows, the moon bleeds light
and flushes the rows and lines with red for

Harvest time is now, “(W)right now or never!” it Sings.
Come rape these infinite vines of me!

My gates wide open.
Come in. Come fine(d) me.
If not, the black
will rot these
drinkable
pearls.


c.e.s.
10.16.08