Parade in Berlin

The green parade jounces by tautly, and

the drums pelting, thudding, sing drunken

clarity over the Jand's sublimest women,

rocking victory in their laps, prattling.

Nothing is going to be denied, nothing

affirmed. Iron chivalry clanks inward and

upward; and the generals neigh: Glory. Glory,

upon horses gay with scalloped manes.

Bankrupts in stables say they are all brothers,

sisters, pin some pins on maps and dress

their stomachs down. Evenly flow their flaxen-

most dreams, on Nordic daybreaks transported.

Groans from the dormers, replicas of smiles at

the coffee-grave windows. One nightmare

concluded upon a tilbury bearing Hindenburg;

another started, braiding the loins to the stomach.

Everything is subtracted without and within; all

woes stuffed with a robbed land's tulip dressing;

even so, January shapes frozen walls which echo

men inside out and horses propped up on human femurs.