Black Wines

Night vines grow white
Horned blooms that drip
Sweet ooze to lure
Grey moths whose blood

Culled their rare genes
To keep them safe
From the lure’s death.
Once moths are done,

The vines bear fruit,
Grapes black as night
No beast will eat.
You must pluck us,

Crush us in vats,
Let years age us.
You’ll taste sweet night
When you pour that.