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.
