IN the cities
there is even no more any weather
the weather in town is always
benzine, or else petrol fumes
lubricating oil, exhaust
gas.
As over some dense marsh, the fumes
thicken, miasma, the fumes of
the automobile
densely thicken in the cities.
In ancient Rome, down the thronged streets
no wheels might run, no
insolent chariots.
Only the footsteps, footsteps
of people
and the gentle trotting of the
litter-bearers.
In
Minos, in Mycenae
in
all the cities with lion gates
the dead threaded the air, lingering
lingering in the earth’s
shadow
and leaning
towards the old hearth.
In London, New York, Paris
in the bursten cities
the dead tread heavily through
the muddy air
through the mire of fumes
heavily, stepping weary on our
hearts.