A balloon drifting in a pool,
swivelling when the wind changes…

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

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

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

There are numbers high on a building
telling the time, 12:27,
the temperature, 36.

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

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

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

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