Fall 1969 • Vol. XXXI No. 5 PoetryJanuary 1, 1969 |

Three A.M.

She filled her glass and wavered by the sink. He poked burned toast crumbs. They watched an ashtray smoke. Stupid with regret he heard their ruthless talk now utterly destroy what had not been quite wrecked. The scorched earth stank. She called back hurt, they drank mock toast to his cold heart. This night's pain if taken with loss of her, he thought might qualify that ache— till at the end he glimpsed (but turned from the flicker which, as he turned, flared) that by the cluttered sink slumped who had never been as now, in all they two had shared, so utterly desired.

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Whittaker

By Richard Dankleff

She filled her glass and wavered by the sink. He poked burned toast crumbs. They watched an ashtray smoke. Stupid with regret he heard their ruthless talk now utterly destroy […]

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