Like Matisse, bending over ink
and watercolour on a shut-in terrace
to sketch the only wineglass on his table.
Its coiled, thick stem. The row
of blobs below its bowl
a choker of pearls for a bony throat.
The candyfloss smudge of thinning pink
within. Its need to know the worst
but hope for more. He’s writing, small
and black beside the pale-rose tint
he’s given
to particles of water drying on a letter, 6th May 1947,
This is the glass in which I drink
the fresh and perfumed wine of Alsace
à ta santé.
Tous les jours que tu n’es pas là.
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