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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.
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