1951

Alone at night in the wet city the country's wit is not memorable. The wind has blown all the trees down but these anxieties remain erect, being the heart's deliberate chambers of hurt and fear whether from a green apartment seeming diamonds or from an airliner seeming fields. It's not simple or tidy though in rows of rows and numbered; the literal drifts colorfully and the hair is combed with bridges, all compromises leap to stardom and lights. If alone I am able to love it, the serious voices, the panic of jobs, it is sweet to me. Far from burgeoning verdure, the hard way in this street.