Skripit

You say it creaks? Well, take the paper,

Fold it into a diligent square,

Adjust it well so that this door here

Won't open up when it so cares.

Unprepossessing urban snowflakes

Flutter about in the stone well

And that is all, it seems, but wait—

There is one little debt left still.

For man has still another chore:

To recollect all that he didn't,

On the way, say, to the drugstore,

In silence's pulsating rhythms.

And, from under the drugstore's cobra,

To look at evil's joyous hour

Without evil, not out of kindness,

But because life is over.