You had to listen to the soldiers' feet
wounding the swirls the accordion waltz
left on the pavement like a mower's swath
once the parade had passed
you had to kiss the soldier's foot
pulled out of its boot and lick the ankle
and climb as far as the khaki
seven and a half millimeters thick would allow
you had to shake their belly like a carpet
it was grand illusion day
when they break out of their deep knowledge

and pretend to look for handsome successors

but it would be better to look for the heart
and put an alarm clock in its place
that could play reveille like a puppet
but wouldn't serve coffee in bed
you'd have to rummage under their false teeth
to hunt for hidden diamonds with a lively finger
hunt for them everywhere not find them
even in the folds of their nakedness.
Joy of being a child of a sovereign people
of lending a hand to institutions
and of seeing one's name inscribed on the slate
of urinals in letters of coal tar
for a single flag that one has become
drumming one's boredom at street corners
that the wind stirs unless it's first

the wind of trumpets all love to the winds