note on spacing: Yes, it really is supposed to look more or less like this! The wiki text coding has been upgraded so now I can show you more or less what this poem is supposed to look like. There's still a little bit of weirdness but it's infinitely closer than before. If you'd like to see how I did it, just got to the “Edit This Page” screen to see all the funky code I forced onto it.
–– A dream
we dreamed
each
separately
we two
of love
and of
desire––
that fused
in the night––
in the distance
over
the meadows
by day
impossible––
The city
disappeared
when
we arrived––
A dream
a little false
toward which
now
we stand
and stare
transfixed––
All at once
in the east
rising!
All white!
small
as a flower—
a locust cluster
a shad bush
blossoming
Over the swamps
a wild
magnolia bud—
greenish
white
a northern
flower—
And so
we live
looking—
At night
it wakes
On the black
sky—
a dream
toward which
we love—
at night
more
than a little
false—
We have bred
we have dug
we have figured up
our costs
we have bought
an old rug—
We batter at our
unsatisfactory
brilliance—
There is no end
to desire—
Let us break
through
and go there—
in
vain!
—delectable
amusement:
Milling about—
Money! in
armored trucks—
Two men
walking
at two paces from
each other
their right hands
at the hip—
on the butt of
an automatic—
till they themselves
hold up the bank
and themselves
drive off
for themselves
the money
in an armored car—
For love!
Carefully
carefully tying
carefully
selected
wisps of long
dark hair
wisp
by wisp
upon the stubs
of his kinky wool—
For two hours
three hours
they worked—
until
he coiled
the thick
knot upon
that whorish
head—
Dragged
insensible
upon his face
by the lines—
—a running horse
For love.
Their eyes
blown out—
—for love, for love!
Neither the rain
Nor the storm—
can keep them
for love!
from the daily
accomplishment
of their
appointed rounds—
Guzzling
the creamy foods
while
out of sight
in
the sub-cellar—
the waste fat
the old vegetables
chucked down
a chute
the foulest
sink in the world—
And go
on the out-tide
ten thousand
cots
floating to sea
like weed
that held back
the pristine ships—
And fattened there
an eel
in the water pipe—
No end—
There!
There!
There!
—a dream
of lights
hiding
the iron reason
and stone
a settled
cloud—
City
whose stars
of matchless
splendor—
and
in bright-edged
clouds
the moon—
bring
silence
breathlessly—
Tearful city
on a summer’s day
the hard grey
dwindling
in a wall of
rain—
farewell!
--William Carlos Williams, 1936