4 a.m.,

No grapes to pick.

Ghosting through the valley,

barefoot.

Treading on green leaves and pressed juice,

To leave sticky footprints behind.

-

Falling down the lane.

-

Fog dripping down my neck (wine-like),

Off the ends of my hair

To puddle on the grainy silt.

I step on a passing bunch,
bursting.

(somehow contained)

Purple toes,

And the juice runs to stain my nails.

Sweet luxury,

Seedless.

(This is the land of ghosts.)

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Feel like I'm in a rut...can't write. Image I got staring up at a hotel ceiling.