W.H. Auden (from friend A.'s blog):
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good
I've been reading so much more poetry lately--even memorizing pieces of it, that I repeat to myself, mantra-like, at odd times. Something about poetic consciousness feels undomesticated, unclaimed and unrepentant.
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