Those groans men use

    passing a woman on the street

    or on the steps of the subway

    to tell her she is a female

    and their flesh knows it，

    are they a sort of tune，

    an ugly enough song， sung

    by a bird with a slit tongue

    but meant for music？

    Or are they the muffled roaring

    of deafmutes trapped in a building that is

    slowly filling with smoke？

    Perhaps both.

    Such men most often

    look as if groan were all they could do，

    yet a woman， in spite of herself，

    knows it's a tribute：

    if she were lacking all grace

    they'd pass her in silence：

    so it's not only to say she's

    a warm hole. It's a word

    in grief-language， nothing to do with

    primitive， not an ur-language；

    language stricken， sickened， cast down

    in decrepitude. She wants to

    throw the tribute away， dis-

    gusted， and can't，

    it goes on buzzing in her ear，

    it changes the pace of her walk，

    the torn posters in echoing corridors

    spell it out， it

    quakes and gnashes as the train comes in.

    Her pulse sullenly

    had picked up speed，

    but the cars slow down and

    jar to a stop while her understanding

    keeps on translating：

    'Life after life after life goes by

    without poetry，

    without seemliness，

    without love.'