A Curse

By PAGE COOPER

WHEN the last black, vampire hour of night
 Sucks at the throat of the dying moon,
Or the brask sun scorches with avid light
 The tremulous, fevered flesh of noon,
Through ice or blizzard or bitter hiss
 Of rain, you'll seek for the love you slew,
Parched with lust for a phantom kiss,
 Faint for the joy you never knew.