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Drab discoloration
Of faces, façades, pawn-shops,
Second-hand clothing,
Smoky and fly-blown glass of lunch-rooms,
Odors of rancid life. . .
Deadly uniformity
Of eyes and windows
Alike devoid of light. . .
Holes wherein life scratches—
Mangy life
Nosing to the gutter’s end. . .
Show-rooms and mimic pillars
Flaunting out of their gaudy vestibules
Bosoms and posturing thighs. . .
Over all the Elevated
Droning like a bloated fly.
This poem is in the public domain.
Wind rising in the alleys
My spirit lifts in you like a banner
Streaming free of hot walls.
You are full of unspent dreams . . .
You are laden with beginnings . . .
Come forth, you workers!
Let the fires go cold—
Let the iron spill out, out of the troughs—
Let the iron run wild
Like a red bramble on the floors—
Leave the mill and the foundry and the mine
And the shrapnel lying on the wharves—
Leave the desk and the shuttle and the loom—
I have known only my own shallows—
Safe, plumbed places,
Where I was wont to preen myself.
But for the abyss
I wanted a plank beneath
And horizons...
I was afraid of the silence
And the slipping toe-hold...