Puppets filled the dark
With round ivory faces, black eyes,
Carved wooden noses, at the bars of the crib
Made from Adam’s rib.
Blare of the horn, fire engines
Screamed up the avenue, flew.
Mother voices chased the puppets out
But the sirens’ singing never ceases.
There is no release from the dark
Unless your arms and cheek are near
And our legs, laced as one,
Empty the black of eyes,
And red metal cries.