Interior: The Suburbs

0:00 There is no rest for the mind in a small

0:03 house. It moves,

0:04 looking for God with a mysterious

0:06 eye fixed on the bed,

0:08 into a cracked egg at breakfast,

0:10 looking for glory in an arm

0:12 chair,

0:13 or simply noting the facts of life in a fly

0:17 as sleep upon the ceiling. The mind

0:20 sunk in quiet places, like old heroes,

0:24 sleeps no more,

0:25 but walks abroad in a slouch hat performing

0:29 adultery at violent street corners,

0:32 then trembling, returns,

0:34 sadly directs its mysterious

0:36 eye into a coffee-cup. There is no rest,

0:40 for there are many miles to walk in the small

0:44 house,

0:45 traveling past the same chairs,

0:47 the same tables,

0:49 the same glassy portraits on the walls,

0:52 flowing

0:52 into darkness. There is no victory in the

0:56 mind but desperate valour shattering the

1:00 four walls,

1:01 disintegrating human love until an

1:04 iron-lidded mysterious eye lowered carefully

1:08 with a frail body under churchyard gardens.

1:13 Stairs upward,

1:14 luminous, inevitable, piercing

1:17 solar magnitudes on a fine morning. End of

1:25 poem. This recording is in the public domain.