Not the smoothness, not the insane clocks on the square,

the scent of manure in the municipal parterre,

not the fabrics, the sullen mockery of Tweety Bird,

not the fresh troops that needed freshening up. If it occurred

in real time, it was OK, and if it was time in a novel

that was OK too. From palace and hovel

the great parade flooded avenue and byway

and turnip fields became just another highway.

Leftover bonbons were thrown to the chickens

and geese, who squawked like the very dickens.

There was no peace in the bathroom, none in the china closet

or the banks, where no one came to make a deposit.

In short all hell broke loose that wide afternoon.

By evening all was calm again. A crescent moon

hung in the sky like a parrot on its perch.

Departing guests smiled and called, “See you in church!”

For night, as usual, knew what it was doing,

providing sleep to offset the great ungluing

that tomorrow again would surely bring.

As I gazed at the quiet rubble, one thing

puzzled me: What had happened, and why?

One minute we were up to our necks in rebelliousness,

and the next, peace had subdued the ranks of hellishness.

So often it happens that the time we turn around in

soon becomes the shoal our pathetic skiff will run aground in.

And just as waves are anchored to the bottom of the sea

we must reach the shallows before God cuts us free.