Town, a town,
Over which the sun as it comes to it;
Which cools, houses and lamp-posts,
during the night, with the roads—
Inhabited partly by those
Who have been born here,
Houses built—. From a train one sees
him in the morning, his morning;
Him in the afternoon, straightening—
People everywhere, time and the work
One moves between reading and re-reading,
The shape is a moment.
From a crowd a white powdered face,
Eyes and mouth making three—
Near your eyes—
Love at the pelvis
Reaches the generic, gratuitous
(Your eyes like snail-tracks)
We slide in separate hard grooves
Bowstrings to bent loins,
Your spiral women
By a fountain
Your picture lasts thru us
Thick with succession of civilizations;
And the women.
No interval of manner
Your body in the sun.
You? A solid, this that the dress
Your face unaccented, your mouth a mouth?
It is you who truly
Excel the vegetable,
The fitting of grasses—more bare than
Pointedly bent, your elbow on a car-edge
Incognito as summer
‘O city ladies’
Your coats wrapped,
Your hips a possession
Your shoes arched
Your walk is sharp
Pertain to lingerie
The fields are road-sides,
Rooms outlast you.
The cars pass
By the elevated posts
And the movie sign.
A man sells post-cards.
It brightens up into the branches
And against the same buildings
His job is as regular.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem