Back-Streets

INANE perspective stretched behind the street: A wall, a yard, a wall, a yard, a wall, Patterned interminably, patterned neat With intervals of oblongs squat and tall. A full moon dims the stars and here and there Glints on a bulging square of window-pane. Soon clinging sodden moistures glut the air And mists fall heavier than autumn rain. Only one room of all these rooms is lit. Perhaps somebody watches, dreams absurd And sentimental dreams, and from this pit The ponderous bourdon of some heart is stirred. Men live their packed exasperated lives, Callous and unfamiliar, yet each knows, In all these sordid chiaroscuro hives, His neighbour’s pleasures and his neighbour’s woes. Through gutters of stagnations and defeats, Immense black ruins with the beds unmade, Interminable agonising streets, I walk alone, a stranger, and afraid