Ideas are for fakers, pikers, palookas. I gave up their glimmer when they returned An angel's whistle for my blooded tongue, A something too pure and fey, too twinkling serene For all the agony my gutturals must mean. For example. Night came, ushering his monkeys In a ratty cloche of almost blacks. This seemed something near to touch, A fabled catastrophe brought almost to hand, Eloquently close as a cripple's cane. But stars, like damned ideas, Shone clinquant in unrepentant heaven, Far above the dingy circus scene. Shone apart, and yet were a part, as an eye, or even... You, who are here with me, know what I mean.