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Sarajevo, 1914
With the continent
as taut as
a grandfather clock,
a prince of Europe
steps out of his car,
his frown like
an avalanche
of good intentions,
a silver spoon
in quotidian broth.
At a nearby café,
a man puts down
his sandwich, cocks
the hammer of his
napkin and fires.
Each clock from
Sarajevo to Theresienstadt
fails at once:
the shattered wood,
the twisted metal.