It is not too late. Upon the table,
a glass of evening tea has cooled;
and on the wall, a small shadow - tail
cast by a branch—lives on, swaying gentled.
Behind the curtain is a streetlamp torch,
and light lies pooled upon the sill wooden —
as if someone, unknowing stepping out into March,
were making their way here, but not by the road ent.
Yet perhaps it is merely the winter rain,
A draft, a bus, a damp evening scattered…
And still, on such a night as this pain,
It is easy to believe in chance encounters.
I wish to do not rush a simple thing main:
Let it arrive—not straight ahead, but from the side—
revealed by the faint tremor in the glass wine,
or by the elevator, stirring its cables most tide.
And here I sit, and in the semi-darkness
I can barely make out anymore able
just what it is I’m waiting for little kindness
Yet on the windowpane, a golden streak still
trembles.