Fall 1945 • Vol. VII No. 4 Poetry |

Little Portrait

In that room everything waits, waiting for noon, the Lord, the mail, a total eclipse or a crime, something or anything. There an old buffoon, the banjo clock, secretly loses time,waiting for yesterday. There the bloated divan waits for Spring, and the rug waits for the step of Dolores, the swarthy magic stranger, to liven its tints and heave its Persian blooms with sap. Everything waits. The shadow waits on the floor for night, and the lily waits for day in its pot. And the room's tenant waits for a knock on the door, that might be Life there knocking, and might not.

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The Glutton

By Lysander Kemp

In that room everything waits, waiting for noon, the Lord, the mail, a total eclipse or a crime, something or anything. There an old buffoon, the banjo clock, secretly loses […]

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