Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Black Grapes

In a canopy of tangled vines
They hang bunch after bunch,
Ripening in the August sun.

Thick, warm and succulent
They reveal the limitless sky,
In a Keatsian sensuousness.

Twinkling, innocent, inebriated
Enter the celestial paradise,
Smear your lips with their taste.

August 2007, Takiyama

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