In all these rotten shops， in all this broken furniture

    and wrinkled ties and baseball trophies¹ and coffee pots

    I have never seen a post-war Philco

    with the automatic eye

    nor heard Ravel's "Bolero" the way I did

    in 1945 in that tiny living room

    on Beechwood Boulevard， nor danced as I did

    then， my knives all flashing， my hair all streaming，

    my mother red with laughter， my father cupping

    his left hand under his armpit， doing the dance

    of old Ukraine， the sound of his skin half drum，

    half fart， the world at last a meadow，

    the three of us whirling and singing， the three of us

    screaming and falling， as if we were dying，

    as if we could never stop——in 1945——

    in Pittsburgh， beautiful filthy² Pittsburgh， home

    of the evil Mellons， 5，000 miles away

    from the other dancing——in Poland and Germany——

    oh God of mercy， oh wild God.