Scrunch on your back under branches
to plunder the out-of-reach pulp.
Succumb to the pull of plump clusters,
their underslung, dusky abundance.
Then: blush as you dream lips
brushed by a lush mustache.
When a fuzzy leaf nuzzles against your cheek,
you’re a gurgling tot, a suckling glutton. O,
how to slurp up all this beckoning &
not get stuck, a drunk beneath a thorn bush?