they have watered the street,
it shines in the glare of lamps,
cold,white lamps,
and lies
like a slow-moving river,
barred with silver and black.
cabs go down it,
one,
and then another.
between then i hear the shuffling of
feet.
tramps doze on the window-ledges,
night-walkers pass along the
side-walks.
the city is squalid and sinister,
with the silver-barred street in the
midst,
slow-moving,
a river leading nowhere.
opposite my window,
the moon cuts,
clear and round,
through the plum-colored night.
she cannot light the city;
it is too bright.
it was white lamps,
and glitters coldly.
i stand in the window and watch the
moon.
she is thin and lustreless,
but i love her.
i know the moon,
and this is an alien city.
