A new poem
Will further words come with the wine
I sink alone at half-past nine,
The local grape help with all these
I doubt it.
Yet this bottle gleams
With various self-improvement schemes,
And so once more I fill my glass
Quite unaware that pure disas-
ter lurks twelve hours from now…
Me forward hopefully, and lends
A sense of satisfaction to
The brisk revisions I pursue
For want of more romantic ways
Of seeing out these foreign days.
Muttering verbs under one’s breath
May not disperse the fear of death
But now the air-conditioning hums,
And slowly the subjunctive comes!