IV
16 lines✦
is soul stretched tight across the skiesThat fade behind a city block,Or trampled by insistent feetAt four and five and six o'clock;And short square fingers stuffing pipes,And evening newspapers, and eyesAssured of certain certainties,The conscience of a blackened streetImpatient to assume the world. I am moved by fancies that are curledAround these images, and cling:The notion of some infinitely gentleInfinitely suffering thing. Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;The worlds revolve like ancient womenGathering fuel in vacant lots.
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