The red globe of light, the liquor green,
The pulsing arrows and the running fire
Spilt on the stones, go deeper than a stream;
You find this ugly, I find it lovely
Ghosts’ trousers, like the dangle of hung men,
In pawn-shop windows, bumping knee by knee,
But none inside to suffer or condemn;
You find this ugly, I find it lovely.
Smells rich and rasping, smoke and fat and fish
And puffs of paraffin that crimp the nose,
Of grease that blesses onions with a hiss;
You find it ugly, I find it lovely.
The dips and molls, with flip and shiny gaze
(death at their elbows, hunger at their heels)
Ranging the pavements of their pasturage;
You Find this ugly, I find it lovely.