The houses look at one another,
a language of windows.
The violin stands above the collar. . .

Everyone at Lake Kearney had a nickname:
there was a Bumstead, a Tonto, a Tex,
and, from the slogan of a popular orchestra,

A woman speaks:
“I hear you were in San Francisco.
What did they tell you about me?”

Whenever I passed Saks Fifth Avenue
I would stop at a certain window.
They didn’t acknowledge my presence—they just stared.

I wake and feel the city trembling.
Yes, there is something unsettled in the air
And the earth is uncertain.

Neither on horseback nor seated,
But like himself, squarely on two feet,
The poet of death and lilacs

The time is after dinner. Cigarettes 
               Glow on the lawn; 
Glasses begin to tinkle; TV sets

The time is after dinner. Cigarettes
                    Glow on the lawn;
Glasses begin to tinkle; T V sets

Illusions of the moonlight, pale processions
Of spirits wandering among the trees...
Cries and accusations and confessions...

A dream of battle on a windy night
Has wakened him. The shadows move once more
With rumors of alarm.

Night, dark night, night of my distress... 
The moon is glittering with all the tears 
Of the long silence and unhappiness

These are the houses of the poor—
Strange animals ... they live in view...
That woman on the second floor,

Helmet and rifle, pack and overcoat,
Marched through a forest.   Somewhere up ahead
Guns thudded.   Like the circle of a throat