Two ordinary people, nextdoor neighbors,
Surely nothing for legend in these two:
He swishing in mint (his only labors)
Whirring matched irons over clover and dew.
And she for parties: the gold lighter poises
Shy in her fingers, an assyrian bird.
She smiles, her toe flexing gilt sandals. Voices
Curl in a cushioned corner, not quite heard.
Lamps flashing madly, that night, in her room;
Panes staring black and anxious. A race
Of lightning (thunder held, amassing doom)
Quivered long drenching seconds on each face.
Adieu, pretty lighter; farewell, gilt shoe.
Parch, you bright irons; forget clover and dew.
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