4 a.m.,

No grapes to pick.

Ghosting through the valley,


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,

(somehow contained)

Purple toes,

And the juice runs to stain my nails.

Sweet luxury,


(This is the land of ghosts.)

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