Brownstone Eclogues

Morning: the golden lava pours to stone.
The flesh is built of light, the structure bone.
Steel, stone, and brick, the surface burns away,
cornice and smooth facade, the face of clay —

burned off, burned down to dust, by the blue sky,
powdered and burned: that magnifying eye
strips to forgotten earth all transient things;
under the subway the mud lives and sings;

the flint cries sharply, the reed lifts its head,
the yellow iris springs beneath your tread;
and the long asphalt, in a gauze of heat,
falls from the river like a winding-sheet.

Here water flows once more, and willows dream
with blossoms in their hair, the immortal stream
blest by the gods and nymphs; speech here is earth —
this is the granite where the blood had birth;

still living, fresh, as water lives, or stone,
the holy water to bless flesh and bone —
wakes under asphalt, as the morning wakes,
and once more into secret laughter breaks.

The alarm clocks tick in a thousand separate rooms,
tick and are wound for a thousand separate dooms;
all down both sides of North Infinity Street
you hear that contrapuntal pawnshop beat.

Hall bedrooms, attic rooms, where the gas-ring sings,
rooms in the basement, where the loud doorbell rings,
carpeted or bare, by the rail at the head of the stair,
the curtains drawn, a mirror, a bed, and a chair,

in midnight darkness, when the last footfall creaks,
in northeast rain, when the broken window leaks,
at dawn, to the sound of dishes, the kitchen steam,
at dusk, when the muted radio croons a dream,

there, amid combs and the waiting shoes and socks
and the bathrobes hung in closets, tick the clocks —
on the chest of drawers, on the table beside the bed,
facing the pillow, facing the recumbent head —

yes, from here to forever, from here to never,
one long sidereal curve of ticking fever:
all down both sides of North Infinity Street
you hear that contrapuntal pawnshop beat.

Pity the nameless, and the unknown, where,
bitter in heart, they wait on the stone-built stair,
bend to a wall, forgotten, the freezing wind
no bitterer than the suburbs of the mind;

who, from an iron porch, lift sightless eyes,
a moment, hopeless, to inflaming skies;
shrink from the light as quickly as from pain,
twist round a corner, bend to the wall again;

are to be seen leaning against a rail
by ornamental waters, where toy yachts sail;
glide down the granite steps, touch foot to float,
hate — and desire — the sunlight on the boat;

explore a sullen alley, where ash cans wait,
symbols of waste and want, at every gate;
emerge in sun to mingle with the crowd,
themselves most silent where the world most loud;

anonymous, furtive, shadows in shadow hidden;
who lurk at the garden’s edge like guests unbidden;
stare through the leaves with hate, yet wait to listen
as bandstand music begins to rise and glisten;

the fierce, the solitary, divine of heart,
passionate, present, yet godlike and apart;
who, in the midst of traffic, see a vision;
and, on a park bench, come to a last decision.