Living in Sin

She had thought the studio would keep itself; / no dust upon the furniture of love. / Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal, / the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears, / a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat / stalking the picturesque amusing mouse / had risen at his urging. / Not that at five each separate stair would writhe / under the milkman's tramp; that morning light / so coldly would delineate the scraps / of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles; / that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers / a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own— / envoy from some village in the moldings ... / Meanwhile, he, with a yawn, / sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard, / declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror, / rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes; / while she, jeered by the minor demons, / pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found / a towel to dust the table-top, / and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove. / By evening she was back in love again, / though not so wholly but throughout the night / she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming / like a relentless milkman up the stairs.