Chateau Margaux
1947
slithers down the stem,
from the bowl,
left on the rim
by your lips;
red-satin
below your brown-swirl eyes,
mirroring constellations
above quai de la Tournelle
and the Seine
in silken ebony.
Lights! Spread before us
like so many gems
inside a store we would not
be allowed…
The glow mixes with
steam,
smoke,
coffee vapours,
sprigs of rosemary,
candle wax.
The night so pure,
yet with not enough air for words;
and the silence is broken by a cloud-drop
making your cigarette
hiss in its long filter.
Let us retire to our homes;
for have you kissed someone in the rain?
No?
Nor I.
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