The muse at daybreak stuttering, informs my bed,
pines in the scented winter air for poems,
and mumbles about the government and whether I should vote:

The gulls glide, in 1939, into the bonus of another country, 
the balloons and machinery of all the Europes and Americas, 
a hundred million words at ease in the river, 

When I was little and lived on Queens Boulevard my
mother told me stories   the coffee is boiling
The soldier at left throws his grenade into the air