after Paul Valéry
Every single day, under God knows
what sky, I’ve thrown into the ocean
an offering to nothing — a glass of wine.
Maybe I’m obeying a soothsayer.
Perhaps for the sake of my heart
I dream of blood as I pour the wine.
I love its transparency — it reminds
me of a long-smoked rose, snatched back,
pure, from the currents of the sea.
This wine is lost, the waves are drunk,
and I saw jumping into the bitter air
many faces, all of them profound.