Southampton, Hot Springs, and Tuxedo Park:
lost in the backwash of the Crash, the War,
the refugees of grace were washed ashore.
The girls who once were “miffed” or “truly vexed”

would soon acquire the morals of a shark,
waltzing the railroad barons round the floor,
their cold, triumphant necks a jewelry store.
And in the shadows the next drink, and the next.

Where does it go, the moment of desire?
Lost, rattling down the Special’s corridor,
the distant vein of lights in semaphore;
lost, the champagne glasses tossed against the fire,
the bullet laid inside a lower drawer.
And there is love, cruel love, the last to bore.

William Logan

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 11 Number 2, on page 44
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