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