Garbage-Heap

The wind was shrill and mercenary, Like a housewife pacing down the sky. Green weeds and tin-cans in the yard Made a debris of ludicrous dissipations. The ochre of cold elations Had settled on the cans. Their brilliant labels peeped from the weeds, Like the remains of a charlatan. A bone reclined against a fence-post And mouldily congratulated life. A woman's garter wasted its faded frills Upon a newspaper argument. The shipwrecked rancor of bottles and boxes Was pressed to disfigured complexities. A smell of torrential asperity Knew the spirit of the yard. Contented or incensed, The wreckage stood in the yard, One shade below the sardonic.