Of people: These
are all soft animals.
Not one is made of steel.
That
is what he thought.
He felt that they would feel.
If not next day, next Monday.
And he smiled.

He was a member of the quarry—
stone in the stone-yard;
but was also
an almost desperate reliance on specific human tenderness.

The still center,
that maketh SUMMONABLE the rays.

Under the talented sky
the talented earth and earthlings shook in the grip grotesque,
the grip grave and grievous—

(Life is a curious engineer.)

—And Henry Rago looked.
And lo, all about him the shattered décor!
the trite posture; the substitute sails;
tired Power a culprit wearing dirty ribbons;
hate major and flaying.
"Why, what is this?" said Henry Rago. "Something,
something must be done."

But the body fell.

There is Magic in each body.
Finally the Magic is still,
priorities lapsed at last, coordinated
energy and expertise retired.

Yes it is cryable.
And yes it is a dazzling vacancy.

(Poetry, November 1969, vol. 115, no. 2)

Reprinted By Consent of Brooks Permissions