Ghosts of burgandy grace,
tease your areolae with rusted chains–
sift between your flowers and worlds,
manipulate the water in your eyes.
Between the walls of the wine cellar,
these four walls–
they stain satin skin,
a complex of plum and the saccharine growth beneath your fingernails.
They bathe you,
droplets of grape alive with the heartbeat–
pulse and frothe in your hair.
The floorboards squirm with you,
shower your naked toes in meek affection–
as the spirits sip from the spurts of wine in your pores.
Like babies they suckle,
burden you with bitter grape slaughter,
leave you to refresh but,
They’ve drained you,
a secret shriveled in this–
cellar of wine,