For faces that linger in the in-between, My shadows stoop and prance and startle And dust the corners where the crowbars gleam.
The shadows dance along the colonnades unseen, Briefly visible and wholly mortal For faces that linger in the in-between.
The closest to the heart are oft to intervene, To tantalise in fleeting spectacle And dust the corners where the crowbars gleam.
Like swallows darting under roof and beam, Such swift joy must briefly, finely entangle For faces that linger in the in-between.
Time is a shabby fellow crooked in esteem, Who makes haste to mute and mangle And dust the corners where the crowbars gleam.
All things lost in memory bear a golden sheen. Yet fresh the hand that thinly clasps the myrtle For faces that linger in the in-between And dust the corners where the crowbars gleam.