She moved in a calculating trot, Relinquishing hairsbreadths of her life With each step, and gathering Atoms of humour and melancholy Into one last excuse for existence. It is true that she was playing Housewife to her thoughts and emotions. Her intangible household had attained A weak and exquisite indirectness, And she fiddled with its meager neatness; Protected them as they stooped Over the knitting of remorse; Fed them platters of minced scandal And mildly censured the relish with which they ate; Persuaded them that they could dream best When they were uncomfortable; Swept out bedrooms for fear That the talkative candour of her dislikes Might falter in the presence of dust; And clinked the silver on side-boards In an effort to convince herself That she was still robustly mercenary. Again, she scanned the spots On a bridal-gown and planned, As she had done for years To send it to an imaginary cleaner. NORTH CLARK STREET, CHICAGO I. Tame and ghastly coffins Display their shamefaced grays and reds Against the passive vividness of morning. From the base of these large coffins Men and women walk, Like briskly servile automata. Some repentant toy-maker Has given them a cunning pretense of life. A waitress hurries to her work. Her yellow hair and face stained red Blend into a garish mendicant Who steals unreal composure from the morning. Behind her tramps a bloodless Jew. The stench of endless denials Has wrenched his youthful face Into a prophecy of middle age. He does not see the lamely leaden Shop-girl, where despair and apathy, Fighting, produce the motion of her limbs. She does not see this elderly laborer Upon whose face an artist [Illustration] Lies smashed and gasping for breath, And he does not regard This thread irresolutely falling From a tapestry of memory: This slender woman in black. The glittering indifference of morning Divides their faces. II.