The awful darkness

The awful darkness of the town
crushes;in rows
houses every one a different shade of brown
(unity in variety,I suppose).
It almost snows:
inside,the silly people are teaing with bread-and-butter sandwiches

talking of the weather,and who
married whom
(the sons of b–s)
—thin smiles glue
the pasteboard faces,and prevent
sawdust from pouring out of this
chink or that.
The gloom
is flat,
as a poor pancake is
flat;“My dear,our church sent
three thousand bandages only last week
to those poor soldiers’—Whew!
how they reel

those sweet people.    But I’m
going into the Parthenon
to lap yaoorti with my eyes shut
tight. Goodbye
Cambridge.    I’m going

in to see Nichol,and devour shishkabob(what
’s the time?
Five? I must be moving on,
leaving the houses-all-alike
thank God)and I guess I’ll drop in and get Mike
to give me a high.