Somewhere a dog barks,

the shock of splintered glass,

a muffled scream, then

the Adriatic silence.


A child somewhere, wading a rectangle

of corn in the mosaic dark,

searchlights ripple methodically

the frown of a pond.


Two trains cross each other somewhere,

a razor line walks the ceiling,

crockery trembles

tactfully, a horse-drawn wagon

two villages away, clumsy

on the road to Kostolac.


Somewhere nothing changes,

except two clouds have parted

to grant the craning moon

a glimpse into a first-floor window,

where a woman leans out,

scans the corner again, resigned

to the costumed mob

that any minute must appear.