Second Act
The senses waken and wait
There’s next to no sense in anything fun:Whims, like winds, startle roofs with their rages.We’ve liquored and loved, before, till the sunShushed us off to sleep like sober sages.Quiet, this house now keeps saner hoursWhere wandered wishes’ eyes I kiss tight shutWhen, wistful, I wonder upon our bower,That bed, where, lonely, I toss in a rut. No fun! But fitful dreams pen hard demandsUpon the book of my hesistant heart,Thes...