  THE empty trams sing a familiar song As plaintive as those leaves that once were green And cling to asphalt, floating else among The sharp white-pink of quick acetylene. Like rich saliva sprung from hectic flow’rs They spray the night with echoing ideas— Some lose themselves in fickle slanting hours And some evaporate in pallid fears. The souls of men have fossilized, grown cold In this sublimely artificial day, A criminal’s revolver-crack they hold Some new device to animate their play! The lift drops breathless down And stairs in armies rise. Then vertigo, the clown Has caught us in disguise. |
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