Alex Skovron - FOUR NIGHTS

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.