Morning at the Window
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hey are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,And along the trampled edges of the streetI am aware of the damp souls of housemaidsSprouting despondently at area gates.The brown waves of fog toss up to meTwisted faces from the bottom of the street,And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirtsAn aimless smile that hovers in the airAnd vanishes along the level of the roofs.
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