Everything’s the same: the snow
Falls, across the window sweeping,
And I’m no different than before,
Though a man had come to see me.
I inquired him: “What are you after?”
“To be in hell with you,” he said.
I responded to him with laughter:
“You’re dooming both of us, my friend.”
But, reaching with his slender hand,
He brushed the petals of my flowers:
“Tell me how you’re kissed and then
Tell me how you kiss the others.”
His eyes fell on my ring, uncouth,
And he wouldn’t shift his dull gaze,
All this time, not a muscle moved
On his translucently-wicked face.
O, I know: he will only be pleased
Once he knows that everything’s lucid,
Once there’s nothing at all he needs,
Once there’s nothing for me to refuse him.
January 1, 1914