GR translation: the brass moire of diamond-blurs passing

[Mike Jing]

V735.8-22, P749.32-750.10   By now the City is grown so tall that elevators
are long-haul affairs, with lounges inside: padded seats and benches, snack
bars, newsstands where you can browse through a whole issue of Life between
stops. For those faint hearts who first thing on entering seek out the
Certificate of Inspection on the elevator wall, there are young women in
green overseas caps, green velvet basques, and tapered yellowstripe
trousers—a feminine zootsuit effect—who’ve been well-tutored in all kinds
of elevator lore, and whose job it is to set you at ease. “In the early
days,” pipes young Mindy Bloth of Carbon City, Illinois, smiling vacantly
away in profile, close by the brass moire of diamond-blurs passing, passing
in vertical thousands—her growing-up face, dreamy and practical as the
Queen of Cups, never quite looks for you, is always refracted away some set
angle in the gold-brown medium between you . . . it’s morning, and the
flower man at the rear of the elevator, down a step or two behind the
little fountain, has brought lilacs and irises fresh and early—

What does "the brass moire of diamond-blurs" refer to exactly?
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