The Book of Repulsive Women/From Third Avenue On

And now she walks on out turned feet Beside the litter in the street Or rolls beneath a dirty sheet Within the town. She does not stir to doff her dress, She does not kneel low to confess, A little conscience, no distress And settles down.

Ah God! she settles down we say; It means her powers slip away It means she draws back day by day From good or bad.

And so she looks upon the floor Or listens at an open door Or lies her down, upturned to snore Both loud and sad.

Or sits beside the Chinaware, Sits mouthing meekly in a chair, With ouver-curled, hard waving hair About her eyes.

Or grins too vacant into space– A vacant space is in her face– Where nothing came to take the place Of high hard cries.

Or yet hear on the stairs With some few elements of prayers, Until she breaks it off swears A loved bad word. Somewhere beneath her hurried curse, A corpse lies bounding in a hearse, And friends and relatives disperse, And are not stirred. Those living dead up in their rooms Must note how partial are the tombs, That take men back into their wombs While theirs must fast.

And those who have their blooms in jars No longer stare the stars, Instead, they watch the drink cars– and live aghast.