And when we clear away
All this debris of day-to-day experience,
What comes out to light, what is there of value
Lasting from day-to-day?
I sit in my room in comfort
Looking at enormous flowers—
Equipment purchased with my working hours,
A daily mint of perishable petals.
The figures of the dance repeat
The unending cycle of making and spending money,
Eating our daily bread in order to earn it
And earning in order to eat.
And is that all the story,
The mainspring and the plot,
Or merely a mechanism without which not
Any story could be written?