AT A WINDOW SILL

To write a sonnet needs a quiet mind....

I paused and pondered, tried again. To write....

Raising the sash, I breathed the winter night:

Papers and small hot room were left behind.

Against the gusty purple, ribbed and spined

With golden slots and vertebrA | of light

Men's cages loomed. Down sliding from a height

An elevator winked as it declined.

Coward! There is no quiet in the brain —

If pity burns it not, then beauty will:

Tinder it is for every blowing spark.

Uncertain whether this is bliss or pain

The unresting mind will gaze across the sill

From high apartment windows, in the dark.