A yacht at night strung with lights on the black
tide rolls to the rhythm of a trio playing
"Waltz for Debbie." The Milky Way looks on

there was blue smoke    beyond the house a field
at day’s end    slow darkening
in the tall corn    our children scurried
invisible in the maze    voices absorbed  
by evening’s onset    their voices echo

To survive, Siberia, or to survive Siberia:
neither seems possible. So cold, so boundless,
so wild there are parts as yet unnamed.

in a world the orange sun resets

                          The workman
in white crossing the street
carries the wood T-beam

The model prisoner
edges his way through
the narrow gap between

Aldous Huxley and Thomas Mann by the light
Gold after-light of a California sunset,
Strolled with their wives on a deserted beach

They’ll seem to pose for you,
though they’re always posed

When our semi-conductor
Raised his baton, we sat there
Gaping at Marche Militaire,

 On summer days at the swampy edge of the river
   He would bundle his shirt and shoes, his pantaloons
         And drawers on the dry bank