|
To live outside the pale |
|
Is to wither and die |
|
Beyond the pale there are only |
|
Dressed up cavaders |
|
They are wound up each day |
|
Like alarm clocks |
|
They perform like seal |
|
They die like box office receipts. |
|
But in the seething honey comb |
|
There is a growth as of plants |
|
An animal warmth |
|
Almost suffocating |
|
A vitality which accrues |
|
From rubbing and glueing together |
|
A hope which is physical |
|
As well as spiritual |
|
A contamination which |
|
Is dangerous but salutary |
|
Small souls perhaps |
|
Burning like tapers |
|
But burning steadily |
|
And capable of throwing |
|
Portenous shadows on the walls |
|
Which hem them in |
|
All goes round and round, |
|
Creaking, wobbling, lumbering |
|
Whipmering some-tunes |
|
But round and round and round |
|
Then, if you become very still |
|
Standind on a stoop for instance |
|
And carefully think no thoughts |
|
A myopic, bestial clarity besets your vision |
|
There is a wheel |
|
There are spokes |
|
and there is a hub |
|
And in the center of the hub |
|
There is |
|
Exactly nothing |
