Girls buck the wind in the grooves toward work in fuzzy coats promised to be warm as fur. The shop windows snicker flashing them hurrying over dresses they cannot afford: you are not pretty enough, not pretty enough.
Blown with yesterdayâ€™s papers through the boiled coffee morning we dream of the stop on the subway without a name, the door in the heart of the grove of skyscrapers, that garden where we nestle to the teats of a furry world, lie in mounds of peony eating grapes, and need barter ourselves for nothing. not by the hour, not by the pound, not by the skinful, that party to which no one will give or sell us the key though we have all thought briefly we found it drunk or in bed.
Black girls with thin legs and high necks stalking like herons, plump girls with blue legs and green eyelids and strawberry breasts, swept off to be frozen in fluorescent cubes, the vacuum of your jobs sucks your brains dry and fills you with the ooze of melted comics. Living is later. This is your rented death. You grasp at hard commodities and vague lusts to make up, to pay for each day which opens like a can and is empty, and then another, afternoons like dinosaur eggs stuffed with glue.
Girls of the dirty morning, ticketed and spent, you will be less at forty than at twenty. Your living is a waste product of somebodyâ€™s mill. I would fix you like buds to a city where people work to make and do things necessary and good, where work is real as bread and babies and trees in parks where we would all blossom slowly and ripen to sound fruit.