Above its stainless loves and polished prides
the mind keeps one old-fashioned brown retreat,
and while its shining critical asides
make cool reflections on the public street
it slips up musty narrow stairs and hides.
What does the mind for fear in hiding hold?
What does it hold in hiding for its joy?
Fingering there the soft appalling mold,
webbed in a dark no daymood can destroy,
what matted horror does it press and fold?
And there again in shyly secret game
the slow white fingers shiver through the dust
seeking delight, and with ambiguous shame
lift high above the staining warp and rust
what satin thought, falling in sheets of flame?.
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