The unenchanted, shivering through a ripe teapot, containing
All the dirt roads that ever panted up a cat-arched
Hill, by the flowers, community plots, the Sunday mercury
Twilight and track, apartments and rack
Of the street, sweet call of produce at summer,
Fleeting leaf dripping autumn with life, the peering windows
That bite their plastered doors, tennis rackets, stores,
And the winding silence stretching out the sore way
Of the sparrows flitting through the parks; an alabaster
Patience or patient looks out through the deep
To cupping hills of sky: in the distance, cold towers, great
plaster people stacked on molting floors, car-doors
Slammed and screeching off, hissing lots.