Wine

I go back to places
where dreams are living,
grass and roses, light.

I will arrive wet,
anticipating sweetness
like a frenzied fly.

Ah, I am the rain.
What I feed will set
its eyes on heaven's

flashing, pulsing stars.
Hissing of the fields,
like coiling snakes,

the steam rises. Here
is where the grapes
are picked and trodden

the blood-stained fluid
numbs the mind, slows
the dancing of the heart.