In the little town out of which death sprawled over the
  classroom  map
the cboblestones shine like scales that coat a carp,
on the secular chestnut tree melting candles hung,
and a cast-iorn lion pines for a good harangue.
Through the much laundered, pale window gauze
woundlike carnations and kirchen needles ooze;
a tram rattles far off, as in days of yore,
but no one gets off at the stadium any more.
The real end of the war is a sweet blonde's frock
across a Viennese armchair's fragile back
while the humming winged silver bullets fly,
taking lives southward, in mid-July.

1975

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