They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens, And along the trampled edges of the street

I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids

Sprouting despondently at area gates.

​

The brown waves of fog toss up to me

Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,

And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts

An aimless smile that hovers in the air

And vanishes along the level of the roofs.