Down in the blue-green water
   at nightfall some selving shapes
float fluorescing, trance-dancing,
   trembling to the rhythm of
theodoxical marching-
   music that they hear over
the mere noise of the breaking
   tide. Above, stars in certain
places; along the shore roads,
   cars carrying people on
uncertain errands, sordid
   and sacred and all the kinds
in between. Halogen-lit,
   a woman gets down from her
all-wheel-drive velocipede,
   enters through an obeying
door a cyclopean store
   to buy unintelligent
fresh fish and other objects
   whether formerly alive
or formerly dead, she comes
   out again, a poor man calls
to her, selling his no-news-
   paper; the disastrous head-
lines smile and nod, they announce
   the plans of steel patriots
and undertakers, ad-men
   and fallen vice-generals,
doping their stolen crusades.
   But the woman has learned, as
I have learned, as all of us
   must keep learning if we are
to be good subjects, how to
   make of a newspaper the
mask of a locust, calmly
   put it on, and begin once
more to eat everything up.