I summon up your memory
from the dried wine-stain on the marble
worktop of the kitchen.
I trace it with my fingers.
No way of knowing who today
is marble, who concentric,
dry, repeated marks of paling
red. Wine and bottle
have vanished, but the two of us
continue tracing pointless circles in my finger
as in a car that has no doors,
or an impact that never ends.

Translated by Christopher Whyte