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His soul stretched tight across the skies That fade behind a city block, Or trampled by insistent feet At four and five and six o’clock; And short square fingers stuffing pipes, And evening newspapers, and eyes Assured of certain certainties, The conscience of a blackened street Impatient to assume the world. |
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I am moved by fancies that are curled Around these images, and cling: The notion of some infinitely gentle Infinitely suffering thing. |
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Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh; The worlds revolve like ancient women Gathering fuel in vacant lots. |