William Street

The red globe of light, the liquor green, the pulsing arrows and the running fire spilt on the stones, go deeper than a stream; You find this ugly, I find it lovely Ghosts' trousers, like the dangle of hung men, in pawn-shop windows, bumping knee by knee, but none inside to suffer or condemn; You find this ugly, I find it lovely. Smells rich and rasping, smoke and fat and fish and puffs of paraffin that crimp the nose, of grease that blesses onions with a hiss; You find it ugly, I find it lovely. The dips and molls, with flip and shiny gaze (death at their elbows, hunger at their heels) Ranging the pavements of their pasturage; You Find this ugly, I find it lovely .