They look like this, like that,
like something else. Like golden pillars, like Chinese writing, like
monotonous exclamation points.
There are boat shapes. The river docks bulge with shadows. The boat shapes
emerge slowly from the shadows. These shapes, unlike the river
reflections, do not suggest similes. They bulge in the darkness and their
vanished outlines remind one of something. What? Of boats, of ships, of
men.
Men and ships. Little lanterns hang like elfin watchmen from the sterns of
ships. The bulldog noses of tugboats sleep against the docks. High
overhead the corset ad and the ice cream ad blaze, wink and go out and
turn on so as to attract the preoccupied eyes of people far away. Then the
bridges count themselves to the west. First bridge, second bridge, third
bridge. Street cars, auto lights and vague noises jerk eerily over the
bridges.
The sleeping tugboats, launches and lake craft remind one of nothing at
all except that there are engines. But as one stares at them they become
secret. There is something mysterious about abandoned engines. It is
almost as if one saw the bodies of men lying in shadows. Engines and men
are inseparable. And these boats that sleep in the river shadows are parts
of men.
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