Blue Gap

The last night with you, the wine almost
drunk up, its red breath
still damp. The Thai music
lies like an embryo in a dark womb
in this enchanted, craved for
room. Is it the scent that's shackled me to you,
Blue Gap, mingled with the odour
of musty books? I touch you
for the last time, it's like my mother in childhood
killing a rooster; he's still beautiful
and yet already gone. The wine is improper,
like blood, it doesn't belong. It shines, a pomegranate
full of pips, a derisive
ruby.

The indefinite pain, known as dailiness,
comes with the face of a licking dog, with the dog
howling. We sleep entangled in one another, but
...