Dawn on Fleet Street

The guts of the city stink

and we are corpuscles

twisting like coiled worms

through dark tunnels

bowels and arteries

parasites in glorious array


flowing to various destinations.


The night's lights fade,

stations fume hot air upon the streets,

the first newspapers walk,

dogs talk,

scraps of paper drift about,

old bags and tickets

in the sudden gusts of a new day.


April 1955