Helen Hoyt

From “In a Certain City”

DOWN the blue road into the sun

The great cars run;

Down the road’s curve

They swerve,

And their glasses shine white

In the sudden light

As they turn;

And the brasses of their lamps and rods burn.

With an inner turning,

An inner sound of turning and churning,

With a whir and a purr purr,

With a great hum,

They come;

And they shake their shadows at their side,

Their shadows square and wide

Slipping over the road,

Now hastening, now slowed,

Hanging to their wheels half askew,

Purple and black on the road’s oiled blue.

Some with the soft swish of a lady’s train

Pass quietly, with sleek disdain;

Enameled, glistening and neat,

Moving by on dainty feet;

Every whirling wheel

Steadfast and genteel.

Now a broad bulging lounging fellow

Painted bright in black and yellow,

Wobbling under his merry weight;

And now one comes with terrible lumbering gait;

And one rushes by

Straight as a bird through the sky

In the sun.

Shining progression,

Ceaseless procession, procession….

Splendor goes striding by,

Beauty goes sliding by,

In the sun, in the sun.