At the violet hour a taxi throbbing
between two
breasts
brings the
typist home clears her lights

tins

her drying combinations

with one bold stare

she is pyrene and not given to gamboge or bullshit

and so
bestows one                         patronising kiss

finding the stairs     unlit

she turns                               her automatic hand
beside a public
whining

and a clatter from

fishmen

the walls

           inexplicable

               with the turning