Witness, would you— one more young man in the evening of his love hurrying to confession: steps down a gutter crosses a street goes in at a doorway opens for you— like some great flower— a room filled with lamplight; or whirls himself obediently to the curl of a hill some wind-dancing afternoon; lies for you in the futile darkness of a wall, sets stars dancing to the crack of a leaf—
and—leaning his head away— snuffs (secretly) the bitter powder from his thumb’s hollow, takes your blessing and goes home to bed?
Witness instead whether you like it or not a dark vinegar smelling place from which trickles the chuckle of beginning laughter