Living in Sin

She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.

Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime.

A plate of pears,a piano with a Persian shawl, a catstalking the picturesque amusing mousehad risen at his urging.

Not that at five each separate stair would writheunder the milkman's tramp; that morning lightso coldly would delineate the scrapsof last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf amoong the saucersa pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own--envoy from some village in the moldings...

Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and founda towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.

By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the nightshe woke sometimes to feel the daylight cominglike a relentless milkman up the stairs.