People and Dead Wine
All the directions are just to continue. Veering is fancy. Do we just
? Continue for 17 miles. Colder, now it’s warm. And it’s white
out. In the house, we talk about the winter season and the not having
people. My fairy wine unicorn says a shitty restaurant in town serves grandma food. The sausage
man says hauw dayer jshou eensult grondmazher layk zhat? Grondmazher is vanderfahl. Unicorn’s husband served us meatballs last night; he learned to cook from a mother who didn’t want him to burden a woman. Grondmazher is vanderfahl. And the unicorn had served her husband a tuna sandwich with two cabbage leaves, and he said, “you could kill a man like that.” It’s all stories to say between rows of vines. We’re looking
out. The sudden chill will freeze the buds on the vines, and there may be no grapes this year. My mother and I think on it and later in the day drink a bottle. Will there be wine? Maybe cider. I think about the diaper smell of fermenting cider I once harbored in my room. And then of the winery smelling like diapers, and it made me sad. The sausage
man is yelling about zhe preezon ghard, his wife. I cant evuhn fahrt weezhout hehr purmeesshun. We are smirking. We are laughing at all of this; we continue.