What could I not say
to your parted diamonds
as you hung me atop the vines above you.
We’re as close as the mill grinding wheat now –
a crushing production of friction.
The grains fear that milling love,
and the mill fears it will fall in love.
Wines whispered to winepresses once.
It was a terrible result
of intoxication, rushed whispers,
a cacophony of tongue numb deaths –
It was bittersweet for press & grape,
and the mill fears that bitterness.
Bread does not allow for bite or tart,