If as I believe there’s a theater
Beyond Andromeda
Faulty yet welcoming
That arch is Auden’s—
Scripts of universal alarm
Must be recited
In cold and light
While gods make
A polite audience.
Here, as tomorrow
Is untitled, our shoulders
Bear luck or mass
And from the wings
A determined plain voice
Cries wait, wait for me.
Planet of the Blind 