It seemed
the sky was a harbor, into which rode
black iron cruisers, silently, their guns
poised like tiger-heads on turret-haunches.
It seemed the sky was an olive grove, ghostly
in moonlight, and Very-light, with deadly crossfire
splitting it, proving a new theorem with rifles,
unknown in any recalled geometry.
And then he woke, choking. Saw sky as sky
in purest moonlight; and the searchlight beams paled
against it, and he heard Tibidabo’s guns
burst against space. Then one bomb, shrieking,
found the thin axis of his whirling fears,
the exact center.
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