The gate hanging ajar
the bricks glinting
where the rain splashes.
Light streams from the door
opened and closed by your hands.
To enter, so: and red wine
staining the cloth
your blood warming the bed.
The lamp is yellow: there
is no rain, no darkness.
To cut, so, into time
and to eat, then
hours of bread.
And to go out
through the old door
past the shining bricks.
In rain, in darkness
to hunger
for the yellow lamp.
And to close the gate.
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