Мчались звезды

The porchlight coming on again,

Early November, the dead

Raked in piles, the wicker

Creaking.

Across the lotsA phonograph is playing Ja-Da.

An orange moon.

I see the

Of neighbors, mapped and

Like all the wars ahead, and R.

Insane,

B. with his throat cut,

Fifteen years from now, in Omaha.

I did not know them then.

My airedale scratches at the door.

And I am back from seeing Milton

And Doris Kenyon.

Twelve years old.

The porchlight coming on again.