That yawning beast of burden, Baltimore,
awakens aching in the migraine morning mists.
A sewer-bilious belch of steam escapes
from each and every alimentary grate
in each and every avenue and lane.
Soft and secret eyes of night retreat
into their iron stalks and elemental cool.
Doors and windows open, day eyes that see
the fly and fall of fountain plumes,
the march of myriad ranks and files,
the moving, the changing, the dance to the beat of time.
1975, Port of Call and other poems.