The wine-drinkers sit on the porte cochère in the sun. <br />Their lack of success in love has made them torpid. <br />They move their fans with a motion that stirs no feather, <br />the glare of the sun has darkened their complexions. <br /> <br />Let us commend them on their conversations. <br />One says "oh" and the other says "indeed." <br /> <br />The afternoon must be prolonged forever, because the night <br />will be impossible for them. <br />They know that the bright and very delicate needles <br />inserted beneath the surfaces of their skins <br />will work after dark--at present are drugged, are dormant. <br /> <br />Nobody dares to make any sudden disturbance. <br /> <br />One says "no," the other one murmurs "why?" <br />The cousins pause: tumescent. <br />What do they dream of? Murder? <br />They dream of lust and they long for violent action <br />but none occurs. <br />Their quarrels perpetually die from a lack of momentum <br />The light is empty: the sun forestalls reflection.<br /><br />Tennessee Williams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wine-drinkers/
