The lamps are on: terrestrial galaxies,
     Fixed stars and moving. How many lights,
How many lives there are, cramped in beside
     This swathe of roadway. And its sodium circuits
Have ousted the glimmer of a thousand hearths
     To the margins of estates whose windows
Blaze over pastoral parentheses. Scatterings
     Trace out the contours of heights unseen,
Drip pendants across their slopes.
     Too many of us are edging behind each other
With dipped beams down the shining wet.
     Our lights seem more beautiful than our lives
In the pulse and grip of this city with neither
     Time nor space in which to define
Itself, its style, as each one feels
     His way among the catseyes and glittering asterisks
And home on home reverberates our wheels.