These Fingers that efface the Glass
        that casts this Lace
        that, (in the evening),
    quiet shadows pass,

These Lying Fingers scratch the Past,
         the distant Truth beyond this Glass
         accomodates the frozen Lie that daily festers
         musters Strength from
             folded notes, from
             broken incense floating motes,
             letters bundled, never sent,
             the taste, to milk, that Amaretto lent.

Ebullient Tides of sleeping Life
          from shallow pools of Mem'ry spring
          and crash, in Waking, 'gainst sand and silt
          and leave me to these Conversations
          exchanging words with slender Guilt.

(Poem found in the margins of an unsigned Letter.)