It’s tipping down and I’m off to Rakovski,
with that newly learned joke in my head:
‘White wine, white wine – why aren’t you red?’
Beneath NDK, we’re doing our best
to keep up, to say what we can, to drink
from the right bottles – it’s Malta
he’s talking about, that distant place,
and we’re here, in our apartment,
and she’s taking on folded paper with shears.
