The City

A white bird is the big sky. Under it a cowering city stares. The houses are half-dead old people. A gaunt carriage-horse gapes grumpily. Winds, skinny dogs, run weakly. Their skins squeel on sharp corners. In a street a crazed man groans: You, oh, you— If only I could find you... A crowd around him is surprised and grins derisively. Three little people play blind man's bluff— A gentle tear-stained god lays the grey powdery hands Of afternoon over everything.