has fallen to its squalls， after New Wave，

    after the anorexics have curled

    into their geometric forms，

    after the man with the apparition

    in his one bad eye has done red things

    behind the curtain of the lid & sleeps，

    after the fallout shelter in the elementary school

    has been packed with tins & other tangibles，

    after the barn boys have woken， startled

    by foxes & fire， warm in their hay， every part

    of them blithe & smooth & touchable，

    after the little vandals have tilted

    toward the impossible seduction

    to smash glass in the dark， getting away

    with the most lethal pieces， leaving

    the shards which travel most easily

    through flesh as message

    on the bathroom floor， the parking lots，

    the irresistible debris of the neighbor's yard

    where he's been constructing all winter long.

    After the pain has become an old known

    friend， repeating itself， you can hold on to it.

    The power of fright， I think， is as much

    as magnetic heat or gravity.