It’s true; I want to make her feel complete
With words I choose for each sonnettic line
I like the supposition that she’s sweet
Compared to any white or noble wine
Her fermentation brings my passioned verse
I’m not quite drunk, but couplets fill my head
I want to drink her deeply and converse
With words that seem like grapes that should be bled
By pressing them beneath my naked weight
To turn them into passion’s fervent juice
I’ll make her come too soon or else too late
But only if she lets me let her loose
Her metaphoric grapes are hers to share
My poetry is more than just a dare.

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