LETTER
51
street cars rattled. Crowds of workers poured forth to their
day's labor. Beggars awoke stiff and dirty from their sleep in
the areaways of cafes and along the Seine. The sun rose over
the chilled city of Paris, the Paris of rich and poor, the Paris
of splendid cathedrals, the Paris of the opulent
Champs Elysees
and the
Place de la Republique.
LETTER
We are lost we begin to think it is all a farce
we begin to wear a cynical smile that we really mean
we question the mornings and afternoons and nights
we sit in a ·parlor
we drink tea and wine we praise pure perfect poetry
we question our inner springs and what makes us stop and go
we halt at street corners under a yellow light
we speak of our loss
which is women which is money which is wanting to fight
which is an ideal and bread and a spinal support
something of magic something to shake enervated bones
and churn pale blood
it is time for something, surely to arise
to arise and shake this dignity off us,
to shake the air too still with stultified
ambitions, to cry out,
shaking not heaven but our own stupor
our sick pondering: lost lost we are lost,
and we are, quite, and the midnight moon
is weaving, and we
weaving prepare our clever endings,
for we really shan't emerge, shall we?
Edward and Murray and David, shall we emerge
or perish in darkness?
ROBERT HALPERIN
