The sun has set. Shall we go in?
There is more champagne, though it flows not
as plentiful as in bygone days. But let us go
—into the hall and turn the gramophone on,
light heels tapping on chessboard marble
while the lamps burn with the choicest drops
of our father’s father’s sweat.
In my evenings alone at the old house
I seem to see you still, a white arm stretched forth
in a balancing-act of beads and bracelets, a flash
of something divine. You sit half-leaning in that
old, old way: black lace, cold glass, a feather shakes.
The hem of your dress changes color with each breath,
your throat constricts with each draw of the cigarette,
each sip of wine the prelude of pleasure coursing
through your veins, though now it stings of pain.
A delicate ribbon of smoke goes up
through your fingers, unbending and unbent.
Ascending it encircles; encircling, erodes.
The beams grow dark and the lamps flicker.
Today I see no longer the flash of something
—divine, yes, a divine tune, is it not? But please
be careful with that gramophone. It is
the next best thing I own.