new vese

The Wine is Red
(or Love’s Four Seasons)

The wine was red
in the glass you gave me
beneath the Chinese lantern
that leap spring
lips
curtains
carpet
fish on Japanese breast in candle-flicker
as steak’s open wound silently bled.

The summer sunset’s red
hung eternally
over Mrs. Williams’ strawberries
kept alive by your single-handed green-fingering
roses
peonies
the bike I bought you propped against the shed.

The wall is red
where Ms. Mosquito, having pricked me, paused
too long
within my vengeful palm-reach
book
clock
peony-patterned bed

The snow-covered earth is red
colour draining from your face
dripping from five iron
my hands
my shoes
across my wintry lips a smile slowly spreads.







[apologies to Astrid Tollefsen whose poem "Toulouse Lautrec" (in translation) set this in motion]