In an impossible and repellent logical world
One emerged from night’s city saying
I am an evil man
and there’s no cure of that.
Since then, however: silence.
In the menace of a powerful searchlight
Dawn expands and
the stream of occasion,
The frightful rhythms of nature
Interpose their deep rifts in the heart’s spirit level.
Then I felt I had no option but to let her tell of this,
That, really, nature was a form of murder under trust,
Restless policemen behind the blue glass:
All this in the service of autobiographical control.
(I simplify drastically and philosophically;
Too fast, really, as if it were a bad dream).
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