The Man in Medals Blows a Horn
The birds have learned to imitate
the ping ping of bullets
the children bark in the blue yards
shadows of wire hum on the unplanted ground.
In these nights
our illusions, outfitted in gay
duncecaps and gilded pleats,
toddle across the starry air
above the Olympic ice-festival
making for the lake
where
against the red and yellow wheels
that whizz, grow smaller,
elaborate, whizz again, spell out
in spark-showers a tyrant's name
they explode
leaving the air hollow black
and feverish with echoes.
Structure
18 lines · 1 stanza