Moonset at sunrise, the mind
dividing between them. The teeth
of the young sun sink through the breast of the cloud.

Each year the monuments grew larger.
The citizens demanded this.
As their lives got worse they wanted

Forgive me, it is what I made of you
In squalls, in Mardi Gras and ballyhoo.

Believe the sullen sense that sickness made,
And broke you in its hands.

In the two photographs I have of her,
taken over ten years apart, she wears
the same plain dress. In the first,

From Vienna it’s picture-postcard all the way.
Tell me, was ever such a land at ease!
The fat farms glistening, the polished pigs.

the door is open
like the night outside
I’ll stand to walk

Weeding the garden, Clayfeld sprained his finger
     pulling out a stubborn root,
and had to have his wedding ring cut off

The faces of four beautiful women
who sit in chairs, in the living room,
         reading parts of newspapers,

My anger is such that the very ice-fields would melt,
if I had the power.
If I had the power.