The night the seaside funhouse burned,
Its fragile timbers grew hard —
Glassy sinews as they twisted,
Bones as they charred —
And rose up in their white shroud
With a heat so intense the fireman turned,
In a trance on the dimly-lighted pier,
To see the heat dance before him and to hear
The rhythm of the crackling planking.
The gypsy was evicted in the fire;
The harried workman watched from afar
Will-o’-the-wisp, the flashes of her silver
In and out among the billowing pillars:
White smoke, night sky, blue attire.
The Swiss clock tower fell into the bay;
The face in the dial slipped whole onto the waves;
To the shallow eddies it rides,
Smiling, smiling;
The Man in the Moon looks up through the tides;
His shining countenance bobs among the pilings.