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They came in waves; they riders swing before the ambulance

their swords and batons. Saturday night this poor woman

nose to the sidewalk—she was foaming—we didn't want

this, under the hovering lamps, and the noise was bothersome, all these

dark-eyed men from all over Europe arrived later after the sirens so

upset that we were closed, party dimmed. And the riders, the night,

so mean, they blamed us. We bought this building—a single crown—we

floored the garden—we painted over newspaper ink

the factory walls. These days the sidewalk sags, the old crown sinks,

We cannot hold them to their word, outside, the nightmen

in yellow vests, they come now and then to pick our rosemary

and take to a grand vault somewhere under

scaffolding. They light cigarettes and toss them

far; they curse their fortunes, to serve a god buried

in the blue swamp where these canals now collapse. We did not

learn the woman's name she told me

while lucid she would have loved to have me

as a daughter. Nobody knew her, what she had taken.

Little Trouble, sweet baby, from the sirens,

hiding under the bed in a suitcase, she hears what

humans cannot, through a cracked window, the ships

in the fingers of their bonny masts, bringing something old

putrid ships of fiery wood, something drying upon them

ships they are coming home.

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