Bosch’s demons, roosting against br The luminous sky of the Low Countries, br Emerge shaped of stone or dirty light, br Perched atop the haywain blowing br Long slender horns. These jigging imps, br Eager to guide peasants from their br br Rustic scenery to another unknowable one, br Are themselves missing or far br From a place that seems not to br Have needed them so much as their bounty, br Collected from the breakable flesh of Europe. br Even in soot-straked valleys of perdition br br On a triptych’s flanking panel they br Dance in a different air. Lodged into br This bright world without permission, br Forced into frail surfaces like granite, br They exist in the dusty glare and rabbled br Foreground as if for a briefest moment br br Or else all eternity, divided from br True rhythms of this flowering world, br Dominion of toil, sweat, vanity, br Compel the eye to grasp with greater precision br The shades and desire of the human portion, br To comprehend more surely what belongs among us.