Pick it up with your delicate fingers;
The tiny oval, purple and bruised,
And in it is contained a life, and cold juice.
Nurtured by the sun, surrounded by
Fresh air in a vineyard; now
Bathed in the sterile light
Of a public school cafeteria.
If grapes have a religion, I’m
Sure the sun is the Son of God
And wine tasters are the dogs of Hell.
If grapes could talk, would they mention
How ugly you look
As you raise grape after grape into your
Grape-colored mouth? I want to speak to the
Grapes; I want to know what they are
Knowing.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
Pick it up with your delicate fingers;
The tiny oval, purple and bruised,
And in it is contained a life, and cold juice.
Nurtured by the sun, surrounded by
Fresh air in a vineyard; now
Bathed in the sterile light
Of a public school cafeteria.
If grapes have a religion, I’m
Sure the sun is the Son of God
And wine tasters are the dogs of Hell.
If grapes could talk, would they mention
How ugly you look
As you raise grape after grape into your
Grape-colored mouth? I want to speak to the
Grapes; I want to know what they are
Knowing.
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