The hour is late, the lares blink, and time drips down the kitchen sink. An anxious fire gesticulates at six familiar nicked blue plates. Six knives, six napkins in a row, and six of all the things that go to make ourselves. Then feed the cat, and flail the wolf that paws the mat. His neighbor goes night-walking in her nightdress there, among her roses, marigolds and maidenhair.
Darkness stirs, and coming rain is felt upon the air.
Now raindrops sprinkle, spray, and stream to drown her violets, to pelt and patter pansies down, to soak and, suddenly gazelle, herself ungown.