Currents three four eight,
second floor, elevator;
there are no porters nor neighbors
inside, cocktail and love.
Flooring laid by Maple,
piano, matting and candleholder...
a telephone that answers,
a Victrola that cries
old tangos of my prime,
and a porcelain cat
so it won't meow at love.
And everything at half light,
that love is a wizard,
at half light the kisses,
at half light the two...
And everything at half light,
crepuscle interior,
what soft velvet
the half light of love.
Reedbed twelve twenty-four,
telephones without fear;
afternoons, tea with pastries,
evenings, tango and singing;
sundays, dancers' teas,
mondays, desolation.
There is something of everything in the little house:
cushions and divans
like in a botanica-shop...coconut,
carpets that don't make noise
and table set to love...
And everything at half light,
that love is a wizard,
at half light the kisses,
at half light the two...
And everything at half light,
crepuscle interior,
what soft velvet
the half light of love.
And everything at half light,
crepuscle interior
what soft velvet
the half light of love.