Once I was happy just To flabbergast and gust Over incestuous Thanatos and Eros, My impulsive pair of heroes. But now my erring mind (Arranging, jury-rigging jigsaws night by night) Surveys the surrounding social scene In meditative fright. The president imposes order, The pope imposes hope; Which one has the right to expedite My sonnets with his ardor? Every rhyme with law and order Is enticingly narcotic, But to impose them on the Zeitgeist Is damnably neurotic. The windbag of a fascist Hoots and emotes in Life's emporium, His whistlework's that of the serious artist, Envowelling society's consortium. His graves are all so neatly done They lie down in counted rows; The bones obey coordinates; Above, there blooms a rose. I conceive a magic bag That holds us all together, Or perhaps simply the spurious Convention of "the weather." There's no God, or need be none (Intrusive into our intimate "Scene A") Who's got to plod, or descend Deus ex machina. Draw instead in dreamy eye or fable Something constellationish Shared with elbows tucked at table, A grace passed round or handed down, The substance of a wish.