Dozens of swans and geese
launched on its tar-black surface.
Sixteen tiny jellyfish

The knots tied by a river
become lost ends as the tangles
and meanders separate, cut off

The sun hangs on the blistered rock,
The Jew hangs in the sun;
The clamorers are done

Underneath the damask rose
The marriage lace is torn.
Lift up loblolly days to disclose

Nothing happened here—nothing ever
happened in our city, and yet it was destroyed.
What could the innocent citizens have done?

That love of hospitality 
                                                 & the old Irish 
passion for food and drink            (good food, 

You who have been to Venezuela, sailed
the Orinoco in a paddle-boat, 
the Lagoon of Maracaibo by canoe, 

From what facts you gave, or refrained from giving,
I have not quite been able to determine
whether a porch graces the girl’s aunt’s house

Stepping deftly to the jetty,
members of the boating party,
women in pearls, long skirts, cloche hats,

This could be Jeffrey Rosen’s car
or a poem about the night.

Only two can be riding in it.