Mass-Production on 14th Street

Ocean in flower

of closing hour

Pedestrian ocean

of whose undertow,

the rosy scissors of hosiery

snip space

to a triangular racing lace

in an iris circus of Industry.

As a commodious bee

the eye

gathers the infinite facets

of the unique unlikeness

of faces;

the diamond flesh of adolescence

sloping toward perception:

flower over flower,

corollas of complexion

craning from hanging-gardens

of the garment-worker.

All this Eros’ produce

dressed in audacious

fuschia,

orgies of orchid

or dented dandelion

among a foliage of mass-production:

carnations

tossed at a carnal caravan

for Carnevale.

The consumer,

the statue of a daisy in her hair

jostles her auxiliary creator

the sempstress—on her hip

a tulip—

horticulture

of her hand-labor.

From the conservatories of commerce’

long glass aisles,

idols of style

project a chic paralysis

through mirrored opals

imaging

the cyclamen and azure

of their mobile simulacra’s

tidal passing;

while an ironic

furrier, in the air,

combines the live and static

Femina

of the thoroughfare;

a windowed carousel

of girls revolving

idly in an unconcern

of walking dolls

letting their little wrists from under

the short furs of summer,

jolt to their robot turn.

Now, in the sedative descent of dusk

the street returns to stone;

alone

two lovers, crushed

together in their sweet conjecture

as to Fashion’s humour,

point at the ecru and ivory

replica of the dress she has on,

doused in a reservoir of ruby neon;

only — — her buttons are clothespins

the mannequin’s, harlequins.