Just as this night leaves me a knave,
or how Dunbar looked upon his grave,
and as his wind waves our wicker,
we know less of how and what to do,
as it was with me and shall with you.

Empurpled cheeks among the cold,
flame the walls; his wind traps us hold,
pale hands touch with great brevity,
a single second lands us close to love,
for the bite of shame to **** the dove.

We almost had our moment,
now it dies without lament,
the walls stare with incandescence.