My garden, bald and branchy, through the panes
Presents an urban rubble, stiff and sterile-
Behind the fence a sharp black dog keeps watch
Planning a murder in his pointed eyes.
And these sick windows opposite, in brick
Impossible to like, whose ledges wear
Manila sacks with milk or cheese, the tree
Of heaven in grace without murmur twines.
Beyond our grayness visible twin towers
Stretch like nipples up, taut with life,
Their skyblown terraces are neat, and winds
May not ruffle the order of their form.
Which, to my eye below, as vision lifts
Over opaque curtains and window boxes
With beer and flowers, seems correct but wrong,
As choosing lesser evils to survive.
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