INTEREST IN THE TIME OF THE ORANGE-COIFFED BLUNTSKULL

[flugendorf]

The sole escape that really works,

the only thing that's sweet:

a megrim of involved concern,

a fully-formed conceit.

I plumb the contours of the thing,

I puzzle myself gaily,

and while I am therewith consumed

I am not in the melee.

My spirit is not torn by dogs

while it is still my own.

And while I warp and weave and weird

I am not overthrown.

The poverty of That Man's dreams

('Midst gold! Loved by poor men!)

is nothing against my poor dreams;

they make me whole again.

The puddling tilt is not my own,

or surely not just mine.

It's not the thing, or no one thing;

there is no saving line.

Sometimes it's gone - my eyes too clear,

too open to despair.

But in my books - my thoughts - my sleep -

in questions hard - in thickets deep -

in faerie tower and phantom keep,

I find it everywhere.

And then, though That Man is still here,

though it's so hard to persevere,

while some damn thing is still not clear

I almost do not care.