CROWDS
By Evelyn Scott
The bloated moon
Has sickly leaves glistening against her
Like flies on a fat white face.
The thick-witted drunkard on the park bench
Touches a girl's breast
That throbs with its own ruthless and stupid delight.
The new-born child crawls in his mother's filth.
Life, the sleep walker,
Lifts toward the skies
An immense gesture of indecency.