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