Foundry Workers

Brown faces twisted back Into an ecstasy of tight resistance; Eyes that are huge sweat drops Unheeded by the struggle underneath them- Throughout the night you stagger under walls Where life is squeezed to squealing bitterness. Beneath your heaving flash of limbs Your thoughts are smashed to a dejected trance And you are swept, like empty mites, Into a glistening frenzy of motion ... Yet, on a Sunday afternoon I have seen you straightening your backs with slow smiles; Walking through the streets And patiently groping for lost outlines. Your lips were placid bruises Almost fearing to relax, And often out upon some green Your legs swung themselves into long lost shapes. Perhaps upon your death-beds You will lift your hands, with a wraith of grace, Showing life a last, weak curve Of the rhythm he could not kill.