Sonnet: O City, City

To live between terms, to live where death has his loud picture in the subway ride, Being amid six million souls, their breath An empty song suppressed on every side, Where the sliding auto's catastrophe Is a gust past the curb, where numb and high The office building rises to its tyranny, Is our anguished diminution until we die. Whence, if ever, shall come the actuality Of a voice speaking the mind's knowing, The sunlight bright on the green windowshade, And the self articulate, affectionate, and flowing, Ease, warmth, light, the utter showing, When in the white bed all things are made.