I
Tonight there are only the winter stars. 
The sky is no longer a junk-shop, 
Full of javelins and old fire-balls, 
Triangles and the names of girls. 

II
Over and over again you have said, 
This great world, it divides itself in two, 
One part is man, the other god:
Imagined man, the monkish mask, the face. 

III
Tonight the stars are like a crowd of faces
Moving round the sky and singing
And laughing, a crowd of men, 
Whose singing is a mode of laughter. 

IV
Never angels, nothing of the dead, 
Faces to people night's brilliancy,
Laughing and singing and being happy, 
Filling the imagination's need. 

V
In this rigid room, an intenser love, 
Not toys, not thing-a-ma-jigs--
The reason can give nothing at all
Like the response to desire.  


 = Doug Ross