The red globe of light, the liquor green,the pulsing arrows and the running firespilt on the stones, go deeper than a stream;
You find this ugly,
I find it
Ghosts' trousers, like the dangle of hung men,in pawn-shop windows, bumping knee by knee,but none inside to suffer or condemn;
You find this ugly,
I find it lovely.
Smells rich and rasping, smoke and fat and fishand puffs of paraffin that crimp the nose,of grease that blesses onions with a hiss;
You find it ugly,
I find it lovely.
The dips and molls, with flip and shiny gaze (death at their elbows, hunger at their heels) Ranging the pavements of their pasturage;
You Find this ugly,
I find it lovely .
