Dead March

Under the bunker, where the reek of kerosene Prepared the marriage rite, leader and whore,

Imperfect kindling even in this wind, burn on.

Someone in uniform hums Brahms.

Servants

Eyewitness stories as the night comes down, as smoking coals

Boots on the stone, the occupying troops.

Howl ministers.

Deep in Kyffhauser Mountain's underground,

The Holy Roman Emperor snores on, in sleep enduring Seven centuries.

His long red

Grows through the table to the floor.

He moves a little.

Far in the labyrinth, low thunder rumbles and dies out.

Twitch and lie still.

Is Hitler now in the Himalayas?

We are in Cleveland, or Sioux Falls.

The

Seems like Omaha, the air pumped in from Düsseldorf.

Cold rain keeps dripping just outside the bars.

The

Burst on the table as the

Untwists the vise, removes his gloves, puts

Izvestia. (Old saboteurs, controlled by

Scheming and unconquered ghost, still threaten Novgorod.)—And not far from the pits, these bones of ours,

Burned, bleached, and splintering, are shoveled, ready for the fields.