for Rene Magritte br br The carpenter's made a hole br In the parlor floor, and I'm standing br Staring down into it now br At four o'clock in the evening, br As Schliemann stood when his shovel br Knocked on the crowns of Troy. br br A clean-cut sawdust sparkles br On the grey, shaggy laths, br And here is a cluster of shavings br From the time when the floor was laid. br They are silvery-gold, the color br Of Hesperian apple-parings. br br Kneeling, I look in under br Where the joists go into hiding. br A pure street, faintly littered br With bits and strokes of light, br Enters the long darkness br Where its parallels will meet. br br The radiator-pipe br Rises in middle distance br Like a shuttered kiosk, standing br Where the only news is night. br Here's it's not painted green, br As it is in the visible world. br br For God's sake, what am I after? br Some treasure, or tiny garden? br Or that untrodden place, br The house's very soul, br Where time has stored our footbeats br And the long skein of our voices? br br Not these, but the buried strangeness br Which nourishes the known: br That spring from which the floor-lamp br Drinks now a wilder bloom, br Inflaming the damask love-seat br And the whole dangerous room.