And the waterflow sound of the feeding brute as he pads by the cooking-fires,
His body shoulders the canyoned streets, his gluttonous mouths expand
And he laps the fat and flesh of the earth as a cat laps milk from a hand.
Slowly the greedy claws curl back, the feelers recoil and close,
The flood is setting the other way with the avalanche pound of snows,
Heavy and hot as a sated bee, enormous, slower than oil,
The beast comes shuffling to lair again, his lips still wet with his spoil.
THE WALKERS
(Strike Pickets—Lower Fifth Ave.)
It is past day and its brilliance, it is not yet sumptuous night