four 4

His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block, Or trampled by insistent feet At four and five and six o'clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes, And evening newspapers, and eyes Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

Indie Pop