Brute Image

It's question of altitude, or latitude,

Probably. I see them leaving their offices.

By seven they are turning smartly into the drive

To spend the evening with small patterns and odd,

Oblique fixures. Authentic what? Did I say,

Ore more likely did you ask, is there any

Deliverance from any of this? Why yes,

One boy says, one can step for a moment

Out into the hall. Spells bring some relief

And antique shrieking into the night

That was not here before, not like this.

This is only a stand-in for the more formal,

More serious side of it. There is partial symmetry here.

Later one protests: How did we get here

This way, unable to stop communicating?

And is it all right for the children to listen

For the weeds slanting inward, for the cold mice

Until dawn? Now every yard has its tree,

Every heart its valentine, and only we

Don't know how occupy the tent of night

So that what must come to pass shall pass.