The back of your pale white hand
brushed against mine on the planchette,
yet I wasn't afraid. I felt your occult blood
pulsing in my veins.
The storm surged against the slatted windows,
with a deathly moan as it came,
but I sat upright—shut indoors—
illumined in my cigarette flame.
Then, your ghostly apparition—
slight as your birdlike frame had been—
appeared as softly as it went
out of the dimly lit corridor.
The ethereal apples of your cheeks
were overripe and sallow;
Had heaven not the feast, or had you
pecked at the golden loaf
as finicky as a swallow?
