At the picture show
she fidgets, picks at her toes
speaks of her fat fetid dog
On the walls, golden cherubs
dance above purled sconces
that smear the tiers
with a sallow trembling light
She does not know that the dog is forever
The mad bomber
stands in his stark upstairs flat
mulling an address
fixed on a slip
of outstretched paper
In silken cape and fedora
he scuttles down the staircase
his tiny pointed shoes
curtly bobbing each landing
Outside he wanes
down the dark cobbled lane
Soon he will open the door
In the warm lamp light
the smiling old dog
twists its swirled clay figure
toward the brass bed
She looks up from her book
finds herself sliding
into the abysmal acorn eyes
Everywhere is a celebration of glass
ringing, ringing
Bits of it rise like geese
to follow the brusque banshee wind