Extraordinary how warm it is tonight,
a hot wind rattling the milkweed pods.
It is poetry time, the words are blowing
through me in late summer, late at night.
I am eating handfuls of corn nuts
that look just like yellowed molars
while thinking that I am chewing them
with my molars, one of those odd images
that will probably make it into a poem.
But what I really came to say is this:
Reading a poem about ripening grapes —
a stage called engustment when the fruit
blushes, sweetens and plumps up fast —
makes me think of sex, because gust
means taste in Latin but it also means
pleasure in Spanish, the two being
inextricably entwined, like grape vines
in autumn, as the green grapes engust,
swelling with sun-lust, ripening like love
growing in tight bunches on the vine.