The middle is the place to stand <br />If there can be one solid spot, <br />Undoubted, in that damaged land. <br />Two schools exist; one says there is <br />No region lacking hazard, pain, <br />And fear; the other mentions plains <br />Enclosed <br />For those <br />Wanting more than the perfumed rose. <br /> <br /> <br />On one hand, birds and trained baboons <br />Polish the atmosphere with words <br />Like slate, rasping and grey. Their moons <br />Are sterile as their eyes, dull marbles, <br />Damp and cavern-caught. And evenings <br />Spread through days of easy grief: <br />The fall <br />Of all <br />Grins from a shaky pedestal. <br /> <br /> <br />And on the other, absolutes <br />Disguised as gods in masks of print <br />Poke into ruins and dispute <br />Arrival of the perished hour, <br />Past and dead—one they await <br />Hysterically, to penetrate, <br />And guide <br />With pride <br />To unexpected suicide.<br /><br />Weldon Kees<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-climate-of-danger/
