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