All those stories come tumbling
over the chopped sea waves and the broken stones of the road,
they come tumbling and running like puppies, or children,
something like that, since surely no crowd of men in fedoras
ever laughed and nickered as they ran and fell,
racing, out of breath, to tell us.
Hey to the red mitten, no, not stained with blood,
that’s berry juice from a hawthorne tree in a holiday mood—
and Hey to the hand that tucks the golden curls
back under the cap and wishes him a bonny speedy journey.
When the wind’s from the north, the story goes,
the whisky sting reds the nose and warms the bones.
She runs with her skirts up, in woolen stockings,
and the bundle on the sleigh flickers like blinking
in the clatter of the film through sprockets,
because it’s all happening, again, in broad day this time.