Flight

 The night is still young

There is a sickening sweetness

Of loving things

Loitering about the corridors

Of softly closed doors beyond which

Someone softly whispers enchanting things

Sliding along his whiskey-drunk tones

No one would remember these in the 

Mornings to come

There is still light, still time,

Still caresses of waiting wind

Carrying the sound of muffled laughter

As someone sniffs a shirt

Shrew in the laundry basket, waiting for

A peculiar perfume only the seeker

Could find

At the balcony railing's open wounds

The iron that was filled with poetry

By the passing mist lets out a

Long, fragrant sigh full of hunger

The petals between the pages might yet

Be unbloomed

The night is still young 

And there is all things fair and

All things sweet and hopeful

So flee before dawn.