Pouring Bitter Wine
The fountain in the labyrinth
spills vinegar
for my phantom to drink.
The phantom of my fears
spills darkness
for the fountain to sour.
An hour here is
a month everywhere else.
Ajeno a ti.
The black breasts of the jailer
could never be the gourds
for bitter wine
the way your body was.
So I pour these red tears
into my deepest gutter
after a toast to you.
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