Penumbra

In this teashop
they seem so violent.
Why should they come here
dressed for tragedy?

Did they anticipate
this genteel atmosphere?
Her eyes are like moth-wings
furtive under a black arch.

She drinks a cup of tea.
But he is embarrassed—
stretches his gross neck
out of the white grip of his collar.

Sits uneasily
eagerly rises now she has done.
Anxiously seeks the looking-glass
then seeks the door.

She is gone
a vestal her robes fluttering
like a printed sheet
in a gusty Tube.
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