By Eric Meub
It’s nearly bedtime, but I’m seeing shapes
Beyond the window, on a hill of grapes.
She looks like me, cocooned inside a cask,
basking in rays of light the pulp has bent
into a halo. She flirts behind a mask
of wings: white wings, but veined with sediment.
All day I’ve been an angel on parade
among the clusters, praising spirits caged
inside. But dusk brought out the moths, afraid
of fading light and proof of having aged.
They batter at the pane behind my blinds
for sixty watts of ecstasy and harass
my reverie until the morning finds
one pasted like a label to the glass.
Copyright © 2014 by Eric Meub
Eric Meub, architect, lives and practices in Pasadena. He is the adopted brother of the artist, Susan C. Price. They respect, in their different ways, the line.
Perhaps my greatest present marvels of this poem (that is, on my latest reading) are two: the number of its 107 words that are monosyllables (50), and the number of its words that have a viticultural connotation (10): grapes, of course, and cask, pulp, sediment, clusters, spirits, proof, aged, label, and glass.
ReplyDeletei really enjoyed this !
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