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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=429736" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Last Trams</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=429736" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I<br>THAT street washed with violet <br>Writes like a tablet <br>Of living here; that pavement <br>Is the metal embodiment <br>Of living here; those terraces <br>Filled with dumb presences <br>Lobbed over mattresses, <br>Lusts and repentances, <br>Ardours and solaces, <br>Passions and hatreds <br>And love in brass bedsteads . . . <br>Lost now in emptiness <br>Deep now in darkness <br>Nothing but nakedness, <br>Rails like a ribbon <br>And sickness of carbon <br>Dying in distances. <br>II<br>THEN, from the skeletons of trams, <br>Gazing at lighted rooms, you'll find <br>The black and Röntgen diagrams <br>Of window-plants across the blind <br>That print their knuckleduster sticks, <br>Their buds of gum, against the light <br>Like negatives of candlesticks <br>Whose wicks are lit by fluorite; <br>And shapes look out, or bodies pass, <br>Between the darkness and the flare, <br>Between the curtain and the glass, <br>Of men and women moving there. <br>So through the moment's needle-eye, <br>Like phantoms in the window-chink, <br>Their faces brush you as they fly, <br>Fixed in the shutters of a blink; <br>But whose they are, intent on what, <br>Who knows? They rattle into void, <br>Stars of a film without a plot, <br>Snippings of idiot celluloid.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Kenneth+Slessor">Kenneth Slessor</a></strong></div>