Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,coupling the ends of streetsto trains of light.now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:put out the neon shapesthat float and swell and glaredown the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.Hang-over moons, wane, wane!From the window I seean immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,detail upon detail,cornice upon facade,reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.(Where it has slowly grownin skies of water-glassfrom fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jartrembles and stands again,pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke."Boom!" and the exploding ballof blossom blooms again.(And all the employees who work in a plantswhere such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"turn in their sleep and feelthe short hairs bristlingon backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.Along the street belowthe water-wagon comesthrowing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers.The water drieslight-dry, dark-wet, the patternof the cool watermelon.I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,scattered or grouped cascades,alarms for the expected:queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,you will dine wellon his heart, on his, and his,so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.Scourge them with roses only,be light as helium,for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,whose face is turnedso that the image ofthe city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted.No.I meandistorted and revealed,if he sees it at all.
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