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.