Who would think it ever—
lasting? Patent, it seems, to be nothing
but what it is: one of the summering

For whom the possessed sea littered on both shores  
Ruinous arms; being fired, and for good,
To sound the constitution of just wars 

The young, having risen early, had gone, 
Some, with excursions, beyond the bay-mouth, 
Some toward lakes, a fragile reflected sun. 

Knowing the dead, and how some are disposed, 
Subdued under rubble, water, sand-graves, 
In clenched cinders, not yielding their abused 

Sound of thigh bones dancing 
Wakes the West. There,
There are the gold bones, there

What does it mean? I lie awake;
My mind needs rest, my bones all ache:
So needy and so loath to take?

Just where my long road started out, it ends.
I stand alone and see my childhood town 
Calling its kids and saying goodnight to friends. 

A Coney Island of Las Vegas styles,
Caleta lies all Danae to the sun; 
Naked as greed, careless of voyeur smiles... 

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

Smooth muscles tic. Honeyed sunlight
spreads thickly on stadium grass. 
Drinkers of grace shout throats dry,