In the city, Storms of light Surge against the clouds, Pushing up the darkness. In the country, Is the faint pressure of oil lamps, That sputter, Smothered with earth-- Extinguished in silence. MIDNIGHT The golden snow of the stars Drifts in mounds of light, Melts against the hot sides of the city, Cool cheek against burning breast, Cold golden snow, Falling all night. CROWDS SUMMER NIGHT The bloated moon Has sickly leaves glistening against her Like flies on a fat white face. The thick-witted drunkard on the park bench Touches a girl's breast That throbs with its own ruthless and stupid delight. The new-born child crawls in his mother's filth. Life, the sleep walker, Lifts toward the skies An immense gesture of indecency. NEW YORK With huge diaphanous feet, March the leaden velvet elephants, Pressing the bodies back into the earth. SUNSET: BATTERY PARK From cliffs of houses, Sunlit windows gaze down upon me Like undeniable eyes, Millions of bronze eyes, Unassailable, Obliterating all they see: The warm contiguous crowd in the street below Chills, Mists, Drifts past those hungry eyes of Eternity, Melts seaward and deathward To the ocean. CROWDS The sky along the street a gauzy yellow: The narrow lights burn tall in the twilight. The cool air sags, Heavy with the thickness of bodies. I am elated with bodies. They have stolen me from myself. I love the way they beat me to life, Pay me for their cruelties. In the close intimacy I feel for them There is the indecency I like. I belong to them, To these whom I hate; And because we can never know each other, Or be anything to each other, Though we have been the most, I sell so much of me that could bring a better price. RIOTS As if all the birds rushed up in the air, Fluttering; Hoots, calls, cries. I never knew such a monster even in child dreams. It grows: Glass smashed; Stores shut; Windows tight closed; Dull, far-off murmurs of voices. Blood-- The soft, sticky patter of falling drops in the silence. Everything inundated. Faces float off in a red dream. Still the song of the sweet succulent patter. Blood-- I think it oozes from my finger tips. --Or maybe it drips from the brow of Jesus. THE CITY AT NIGHT Life wriggles in and out Through the narrow ways And circuitous passages: Something monstrous and horrible, A passion without any master, Male sexual fluid trickling through the darkness And setting fire to whatever it touches. That is the master Bestowing a casual caress on a slave. Quiver under it! VANITIES BREAD POEMS LULLABY I lean my heart against the soft bosomed night: A white globed breast, And warm and silent flowing, The milk of the moon. EMBARKATION OF CYTHERA