In Rain, in Loneliness, the Late Despair        

In rain, in loneliness, the late despair

Of streets like patent leather, where the stop

Light befriends the cigarette-lighting whore,

Her eyes sheltering a whipped mongrel hope;

And buses take their cruel primeval shape,

Mastodons of death grinding through the glare,

Their swimming sockets green with want of sleep;

And the sad city lies cold and wet and poor:

Then I have knowledge, hell is here and now:

How the soul suffers in doorways, is torn

On the iron railings, finds no footing true:

And I am one come from the films to know

No happy end, but that the heart is worn

Out among whores and storefronts and the lack of you.