chiaroscuro - wallace stevens
the house-fronts flare
in the blown rain.
the ghostly street-lamps
have a pallid glare.
a wanderer beats,
with bitter droop,
along the waste
of vacant streets.
suppose some glimmer
recalled for him
an odorous room,
a fan's fleet shimmer
of silvery spangle,
two startled eyes,
a still-trembling hand
and its only bangle