The Last Evening

    And night and the large wheels turning，

    rutting the earth toward the cannon‘s thunder.

    He looked up from the piano to find her

    across the room， her face a warning

    and a prayer， mirroring， he realized， his own.

    Outside， a fresh wind ruffled¹ the trees above

    the house and she grew more seductive

    in his gaze as he continued with the song.

    Then suddenly， both faces dulled.

    And he stopped playing while she listened

    to the wind and to her heart. His field cap

    on the table now seemed strangely distant，

    folded neatly² as though it were an ancient map

    holding within itself all the monstrous³ world.