His soul stretched tight across the skies That fade behind a city block, Or trampled by insistent feet At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes, And evening newspapers, and eyes Assured of certain certainties, The conscience of a blackened street Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled Around these images, and cling: The notion of some infinitely gentle Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women Gathering fuel in vacant lots.