by Edgar Holt
….Sleep like the morning tide rolls out
leaving me naked on a barren shore.
Sharply I hear a newsboy shout,
and the baker's boy is knocking at the door.
Uncurls then Fiametta, smiles and yawns;
and through the window I can see
a smooth parade of square green lawns.
'Yes? An egg and tea!
Flesh, face, and form are hers;
a warmth is about her yet,
cooling as her laughter stirs
the sunlight on the coverlet.
Should I presume
to speak of orchids now, or tea,
or, lover still, assume
Edgar Holt (1932)