they are mystified by certain instances. - William Carlos Williams

The province of the poem is the world.
When the sun rises, it rises in the poem
and when it sets darkness comes down
and the poem is dark .

and lamps are lit, cats prowl and men
read, read–or mumble and stare
at that which their small lights distinguish
or obscure or their hands search out

in the dark. The poem moves them or
it does not move them. Faitoute, his ears
ringing . no sound . no great city,
as he seems to read–

Hell, New Jersey, it said on the letter. Delivered without comment. So be it! Run from it, if you will. So be it. (Winds that enshroud us in their folds — or no wind). So be it. Pull at the doors, of a hot afternoon, doors that the wind holds, wrenches from our arms — and hands. So be it. The Library is sanctuary to our fears. So be it. So be it. — the wind that has tripped us, pressed upon us, prurient or upon the prurience of our fears — laughter fading. So be it.

If you can bring nothing to this place
but your carcass, keep out.
(Dedication for a Plot of Ground)