POEM
The clock ticks on ; the wild-fingered hand
of a dark wet evening strokes the face
and combs the hair out-of-doors,
and traffic and expressions are woof and warp
of a cruelly-clear understanding. The people drag a train of
ancient monsters,
cumbrous shadows with banners
of factory hours and weekly wage. Sirens of contempt
whistle in the incidental phrase
and the metre of a force prepared to impel a change
gives words the white outline of chairs seen in fainting,
here we have a room of drastic furniture waiting the remover's
approach
(and he comes solemn as two girders
in a bridge, intent as the dead timber floating under it.)
No foaming running cloud of the night
can disengage hysteria locked in the pounding heart
slowly rejoining the serene wide-open eye.
p. O'CONNOR... from pg 5 of 24
http://www.modernistmagazines.com/media/pdf/276.pdf