The thump of the newspaper on the porch
on Christmas Day, in the dark before dawn
yet after Santa Claus has left his gifts:

there were faults, ducts formed by the earth tearing
our cities apart. Out of this madness, a cry mounted

as if by name, cursed what sky lay just above Zo'ar,

Vienna revolts outside; in,
an addict is bent
over everything ever written on dreams

We prefer to call it Le Système D,
the labyrinth of our permanent exile,
the magic houses and identity cards:

Nakedness isn't guilty,
But it's never unaware. At night
The white blossoms go on

But this is not the field the soldiers took with so few losses.
   Prophets never stop
beside the well sprung from the garden hose. A snake has

If your name is on the list of judges
you're one of them
though you fought their hardening

My head emerging from this paper box—
not heavy but sufficiently opaque
and put there up across my balding pate

I stare out the plate glass window
At sky over the Boston Common
Where seagulls coast past

Death will come and have your eyes.
This one, the one who abides
morning to night, the deaf one,