Do you remember the small carafe
a crown of blue blossoms painted on
its wine-bearing lip?
— you bought it in Alsace for me
without enthusiasm
what for, you said, we never drink.
You never know, I insisted, one day we might
in some haze need to meet.
Its handle broke for no reason
other than a deep crack in my touch.
I hold it now from your hand
steady with your hand
my hazy alcoholic figment
fills it up with wine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem