In Of itself and stationed by the door

A cold as day, mistaken and well-worn

Man speaks to me as if he were to break

the sorry thoughtlessness of my face.

(As dead as waiting do I feel the end

of time itself, I feel the poor dull wing

I guess and guess I press but in the end

The man declining shifts from his appearance.

(of night and jest, I visualize his face?

so well supplied with bluff; encrypted pain?

I feel his eyes: their jewels adhered in place

I tell him: cry. He winks. He cleans the drain.)

And dead as waiting we two make our peace…”

But dead as waiting else and I unbrace.

(Oh guess I press but in the forfeiture

What more? But that it pass forevermore.

Oh guess no matter fumes that go in blinks

As our glasses fill, dispassionately clink.

Or that it stands alone my time, and stationed,

Still no more of the precious!

Loathsome deviation!