Such cloudy mornings full of mist

in papery sheets

that muffle up the power poles;—

the deep and serious grey behind the sky

and permanence of sunless alleyways

as if dome cover made the lengths

of earth more real;—

these are the joys of area.

The little sooty city tests its arms

and twinkling lights, extinguishing at dawn,

and knows for once its shape and mind.

Not like the blocks

burned into rising definition:

the plucking partiality of light

that puts the whole to quarters and bits,

and drags up consciousness and self-

referring shame.

Light is so psychological,

partitioning the humors on a grid

where each square has a muddle wheel-shaped stain

that makes it work abashed, apart.

Shadow equals,

soothes, encourages.   Benign,

expressionless, abstracted, thinking of someone

else, the greying heaven strokes the earth.