This is a day when truths will out， perhaps；

    leak from the dangling² telephone earphones

    sapping the festooned switchboards' strength；

    fall from the windows， blow from off the sills，

    —the vague， slight unremarkable contents

    of emptying ash-trays； rub off on our fingers

    like ink from the un-proof-read newspapers，

    crocking the way the unfocused photographs

    of crooked³ faces do that soil our coats，

    our tropical-wight coats， like slapped-at moths⁴.

    Today's a day when those who work

    are idling. Those who played must work

    and hurry， too， to get it downe，

    with little dignity or none.

    The newspapers are sold； the kiosk shutters⁵

    crash down. But anyway， in the night

    the headlines wrote themselves， see， on the streets

    and sidewalks everywhere； a sediment's splashed

    even to the first floors of apartment houses.

    This is a day that's beautiful as well，

    warm and clear. At seven o'clock I saw

    the dogs being walked along the famous beach

    as usual， in a shiny gray-green dawn，

    leaving their paw prints draining in the wet.

    The line of breakers was steady and the pinkish，

    segmented rainbow steadily⁶ hung above it.

    At eight， two little boys were flying kites.