Should a man catch a glimpse of the feet of the
   shapes
That exist beyond eyeshot, he knows he must follow,
   and songs
Swirl in him, soundless, because he wearily knows,
Or is told, that his times mistrust brightnesses,
   choose
Deconstruction, and clamp his tongue in tongs.
But he moves in the draught of their movement -
   the feet
Grow into logic, with ankles and shins and kneecaps
And faces above - though he never dares to lift up
   his eyes.

Such a man cannot, an old-fashioned music hall vent.
With his dummy, choose only pronounceable phrases
Consonant with his times, or allow them to work its
   obedient
...