The Climate Of Danger

The middle is the place to stand

If there can be one solid spot,

Undoubted, in that damaged land.

Two schools exist; one says there is

No region lacking hazard, pain,

And fear; the other mentions plains

        Enclosed

        For those

Wanting more than the perfumed rose.

On one hand, birds and trained baboons

Polish the atmosphere with words

Like slate, rasping and grey. Their moons

Are sterile as their eyes, dull marbles,

Damp and cavern-caught. And evenings

Spread through days of easy grief:

        The fall

        Of all

Grins from a shaky pedestal.

And on the other, absolutes

Disguised as gods in masks of print

Poke into ruins and dispute

Arrival of the perished hour,

Past and dead—one they await

Hysterically, to penetrate,

        And guide

        With pride

To unexpected suicide.