Cicadas gather on the grapevine,
a mass of wings and vibrating abdomens.
Males call out to females
but it is the grey squirrels who answer,
chattering loudly as they feast on insect flesh.

I sip cold wine and tap my fingers
on thin glass, watching and waiting.
My phone buzzes next to me;
you, calling, again.
I ignore it and turn my gaze back to the feast.

how little by little, you climbed higher towards the sun, leaving me on the ground
year after year, i admired your dexterity, your mountaineer character
until one day the black grapes ripened and i wanted to be like you
only you went higher and higher and my eyes got greener and greener

Afraid to sleep,
we keep on working.
Afraid to sleep,
We meet the dawn
from either end.

When light comes,
its continuity calms us
and ancestors watch over us,
as we sleep in fits and starts.

Outside the kitchen door,
Señor Romero's own grapevine
says: "Buenos dias!", says
"Gracias a la vida!"

I was told that he-
   Yes, but were you told by him?
I heard that she-
   Yes, but did you hear from her?
I know that you-
   Yes, but do you know me?

My stomach churns to sour froth
when people know because they hear.
If you allow distant whispers to define knowledge
then your truth is ridden and diseased.
Such wounds fester, rotting in the filth of lies.

Stop feeding these ****** vines.
They are barbed and poison and coiling.
Constrictors of death: and they will absolutely consume you
squeezing until your pathetic, bitter brains
ooze liquid from your shattered skull.

If you are not a part of something, leave it be.