And Yet, on Such a Night by Alexander Basovich

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.