Only the ragged-edge esplanade, a cliff
of mealy concrete, and a hundred yards
of snow-blotched beach
separate the house-front from the sluggish sea.
Until eleven p.m.
the sky is pinked with the dull sunset glow
of the Super-Bazaar two blocks behind
the congealing shade
of the yellow-grey brick façade
and the porch of frayed chinoiserie.

Under the bruised sky, north of the Wall,
by a bridge that sags into a smoking river
below a ridge of pine and crag
stallions with tasseled saddles
swing their blunt heads.

There are no footprints
on the snowed-up porch, but someone's hand
is turning the stiff crank,
and the slatted awning is squealing down.
Under the neon glow, svelte limousines
are swung in wild orbits
while the lighthouse beam
pauses and sweeps across the littered shore.

I turn from the door.
Your are drifting from me, seaward,
beyond the tarpaulined stacks of deckchairs.
Vague as smoke, your reaching arms.
Cry that I cannot hear.
O voice. The riderless horses
still stray, before any dawn,
through the ashy town,
and face-down in the slow waves
old comrades huddle
stinking in their quilted uniforms.

O faultless voice.