Window to Let

In the red-knit furrow of the dawn, When the marble blocks of black remain unMt, The street looks up with careful eye, And the Turkish beggar Walks his way.

The ghost-bell gives its morning chime As I walk within the shop. I read the artist magazines. It's six o'clock. It's six o'clock.

The watcher from the counter Sits back in horsehair broodings. A camel burns near Tigris eyes Though I've sinned no major sin. I purchase those I come to like.