And burning spires in aureoles of light
Like shimmering auras.
They are covering up the pushcarts ...
Now all have gone save an old man with mirrors—
Little oval mirrors like tiny pools.
He shuffles up a darkened street
And the moon burnishes his mirrors till they shine like phosphorus....
The moon like a skull,
Staring out of eyeless sockets at the old men trundling home the pushcarts.
* * *