Dining with him at home, she looked between Tall candles at his strange, familiar face . . . A face still so bewildering when seen Across a table . . . or in any place Where he was shaken free from her, and she Must stifle old desires to beat the bars That caged their passionate identity, As distant and as secret as the stars. Sometimes, when he was shaving, she would stare Until his face seemed silly . . . like a word, Sane and distinct when other words are there . . . Now empty, ineffectual, and blurred. |