Her porch, like the porch.
I went - and the storm abates.
On the table - patterned tablecloth.
Tucked in the corner of the image.
Her face - a gentle glow,
Silence lit shadows.
In the shower - a whirling dance
My flown away days.
I have not come across blush,
And my fireworks - mutno quiet.
And in each whirl of dance
I can see the flames of sin.
Only in recent gift hangover
This quiet joy given.
I came to it with a bitter joy
Drain my cup to the dregs.
7 November 1903
