from our bright houses to the twisted shadows under trees. Let us not listen to them. Do not let them in.
There beyond the darkened garden, in the obscure forest,
the night expends itself in numberless small deaths. That is the way of them, the way of predators. A kind of innocent destruction but destruction nonetheless.
Let us abandon them
to moulder on their crosses, beat their iron wings; to redeploy their armies and invent new forms of sinning and guilt.
Let us remain here, calmly
taking bread, and wine, and speech. And in the morning take our limbs to work, and walk behind the swaying, fuming breath of cattle.