The sunlight marches like a crystal-thighed,
Cubistic, balanced, and relentless mind,
With slow long steps that travel on beside
The short and rapid steps of coward sounds.
The sunlight is a never satisfied
Analysis of men and women thick
Upon this street; its fingers slimly creep
Below the scurrilous renown of clothes—
Investigating tendrils unattached
To earth, and caring only to expose
The rotten squirmings of obscurities.
The sunlight thrusts an old judicial glare
Against the purposeless and spongy bloom
Of faces, reaching in and pulling out
Perversions, servitudes, and appetites
That wait for sneaking auctions held by night.
One shred of explanation on each face
Eludes the sunlight, and, less confident
Than small psychologists, the light resumes
Its sheer, composed and brutal inquiries,
And makes the morning known to hordes of men
Whose inward strolls of light do not preserve
An independent visit and retreat.
Immensely unconvinced, the sunlight tries
To find a reason for the delicate
Sequestered sprays of nerves that grow in beasts
And turn them to the comical dismay
Of men with half-impeded claws and teeth.
The reason dodges underneath a long
And insubstantial shadow partly caused
By the response of objects to the light
That seeks to rob them of their dark defense.
When men turn midnight into afternoon
With minds that hold a fresh capricious glare,
And when they seize the morning and coerce
Its light to blackness serving as a road
For mornings less confined and regular,
The outer sunlight on this avenue
Will break the phantom tyranny of night.
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