What I need is a seraph and a pig.

The pig to eat and the seraph to ask questions.

I suffer hugely. Of all matters heavenly,

I’m suspicious, ornery, deeply mistrustful

All I know is what Euclid says.

We are strolling in our Sunday rags.

We are tipping our hats to the Great Nothing,

Snapping our fireman’s suspenders …

When the ladies come into view

In their light summer dresses, carrying parasols.

It must be ten below zero.

They seem to be laughing at us.

One of them has fallen back and is praying.

The sky is the color of pitch.

Not even one star out tonight.

I think the pig knows what’s in store for him,

Your excellency. You ought to talk to him.

He ought to talk to you.

I assume you have an important message for all of us

When you come. In the meantime,

The large butchering knife on the table

And that woman praying in the galactic wind

I sat and sat peering into the gloom,

And then I remembered the mirrors,

All the many kinds such a big city can contain,

Dimming, dimming …

Trying to catch one last glint of each other—

And that calmed me down.