Sentiment
       

       Cast out from any novel with literary pretension,
       from the concert hall recounting its folio dream:

       the fan dance flame among grated lumber,
       train cry in the distant night,
       handkerchief trailed from a Pullman window,
       ribboned soap in the bathroom dish,
       propped, embroidered pillow, too.

       Yet when the turbines of the novel bump
       at last, the train yard stanchion,
       when the maestro lifts his flourescent arm
       in last measure above the hospital sheet

       the moon will make her rounds
       to meet this December house
       in petticoats of snow,
       visit this last redoubt
       of lavender, lace,
       and borrowed, whispered words,
       lamps turned low, of course,
       and carpet piled to lushly mime
       the slow dance of slippered feet.


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