Ocean in flower
of closing hour

Pedestrian ocean
of whose undertow,
the rosy scissors of hosiery
snip space
to a triangular racing lace

in an iris circus of Industry.

As a commodious bee
the eye
gathers the infinite facets
of the unique unlikeness
of faces;
the diamond flesh of adolescence
sloping toward perception:

flower over flower,
corollas of complexion
craning from hanging-gardens
of the garment-worker.

All this Eros' produce
dressed in audacious
fuschia,
orgies of orchid
or dented dandelion
among a foliage of mass-production:
carnations
tossed at a carnal caravan
for Carnevale. ^v

The consumer,
the statue of a daisy in her hair
jostles her auxiliary creator
the sempstress—on her hip
a tulip—
horticulture
of her hand-labor.

From the conservatories of commerce'
long glass aisles,
idols of style
project a chic paralysis
through mirrored opals
imaging
the cyclamen and azure
of their mobile simulacra's ^v
tidal passing;

while an ironic
furrier, in the air,
combines the live and static
Femina
of the thoroughfare;

a windowed carousel
of girls revolving
idly in an unconcern
of walking dolls
letting their little wrists from under
the short furs of summer,
jolt to their robot turn.

Now, in the sedative descent of dusk
the street returns to stone;
alone
two lovers, crushed
together in their sweet conjecture
as to Fashion's humour,
point at the ecru and ivory
replica of the dress she has on,
doused in a reservoir of ruby neon;

only — — her buttons are clothespins
the mannequin's, harlequins.