Dawn in New York hasfour columns of mireand a hurricane of black pigeonssplashing in the putrid waters.
Dawn in New York groanson enormous fire escapessearching between the anglesfor spikenards of drafted anguish.
Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouthbecause morning and hope are impossible there:sometimes the furious swarming coinspenetrate like drills and devour abandoned children.
Those who go out early know in their bonesthere will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die:they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,in mindless games, in fruitless labors.
The light is buried under chains and noisesin the impudent challenge of rootless science.
And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughsas if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.
