Le cadavre d’exquis, de l’amour.
© David Milligan-Croft
Outside the vineyard,
Droplets of rain refresh us,
Along with the bottle of white wine,
On the wrought iron table.
There’s a sunflower between us
On the cover of your notebook;
We take it in turns
To write our exquisite corpse, of love.
Occasionally, we stop,
To exchange wine through baisers,
While the rain makes our words bleed,
Like your mascara at Nice airport.