  one more young man in the evening of his love hurrying to confession: crosses a street goes in at a doorway opens for you— like some great flower— a room filled with lamplight; or whirls himself obediently to the curl of a hill some wind-dancing afternoon; lies for you in the futile darkness of a wall, sets stars dancing to the crack of a leaf— and—leaning his head away— snuffs (secretly) the bitter powder from his thumb’s hollow, takes your blessing and goes home to bed? Witness instead whether you like it or not a dark vinegar smelling place from which trickles the chuckle of beginning laughter It strikes midnight. |
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