December 27

comments 11
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Vineyards under snow, civilized
rows, punctuation for a run-on landscape.

Our straggling vines look like veins
without a body, the blooms

we contain, of darkest blood,
clandestine first pressings.

Even at night the drifts are
pure white under a haloed moon—

why speak and spoil the effect?
Let a suspended particle be:

Ice crystal, brix, a word unspoken—
I’m learning to let a thing fall, or ripen

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