by which is not meant
what you have been reading
in the papers, or the rumors
you have been spreading,

nor even what you hate to mention:
the plaster cracking in your new house,
the frequent blowing of fuses, the faucets leaking,
the dangerous games of children.

Something is happening
that you can’t figure out.
Things have been put in motion.
Something is in the air.

It is there in the mix-up
when the newscaster flubs his lines.
Or in the trembling of a loser’s hand
as he picks up his last card.

On Sundays it is there, in the early afternoon,
while the sun scorches the rooftops
and a half-burnt rag is blow, shadowless,
over the sidewalks and arcades of the dead city.