At night the factories
          struggle awake,
          wretched uneasy buildings
          veined with pipes
          attempt their work.
          Trying to breathe,
          the elongated nostrils
          haired with spikes
          give off such stenches, too.
And I shall sell you sell you
sell you of course, my dear, and you’ll sell me.

          On certain floors
          certain wonders.
          Pale dirty light,
          some captured iceberg
          being prevented from melting.
          See the mechanical moons,
          sick, being made
          to wax and wane
          at somebody’s instigation.
And I shall sell you sell you
sell you of course, my dear, and you’ll sell me.

          Lights music of love
          work on. The presses
          print calendars
          I suppose; the moons
          make medicine
          or confectionery. Our bed
          shrinks from the soot
          and hapless odors
          hold us close.
And I shall sell you sell you
sell you of course, my dear, and you’ll sell me.

(Elizabeth Bishop)