The Ghetto and Other Poems by Lola Ridge
page 24 of 75 (32%)
page 24 of 75 (32%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
And the moon rolls behind the Battery
Like a word molten out of the mouth of God. Lights go out... And colors rush together, Fusing and floating away... Pale worn gold like the settings of old jewels... Mauves, exquisite, tremulous, and luminous purples And burning spires in aureoles of light Like shimmering auras. They are covering up the pushcarts... Now all have gone save an old man with mirrors-- Little oval mirrors like tiny pools. He shuffles up a darkened street And the moon burnishes his mirrors till they shine like phosphorus... The moon like a skull, Staring out of eyeless sockets at the old men trundling home the pushcarts. IX A sallow dawn is in the sky As I enter my little green room. Sadie's light is still burning... Without, the frail moon Worn to a silvery tissue, Throws a faint glamour on the roofs, And down the shadowy spires Lights tip-toe out... Softly as when lovers close street doors. |
|