EMBANKMENT AT NIGHT, BEFORE THE WAR
Charity.
BY the river
In the black wet night as the
furtive rain slinks
down,
Dropping and starting from sleep
Alone on a seat
A woman
crouches.
I must go back to her.
I want to give her
Some money. Her hand slips out
of the breast of
her gown
Asleep. My fingers creep
Carefully over the
sweet
Thumb-mound,
into the palm’s deep pouches.
So, the gift!
God, how she starts!
And looks at me, and looks in
the palm of her hand!
And again at me!
I turn and run
Down the Embankment, run for my
life.
But why? — why?
Because of my heart’s
Beating like sobs, I come to
myself, and stand
In
the street spilled over splendidly
With wet, flat lights. What I’ve
done
I know not, my
soul is in strife.
The touch was on the quick. I want to forget.