There are trolls
under the bridge
that connects my solitude
with the world of mirrors and veneers
of office hobnobs
and dinners after eight,
where the deathless ogres follow me
to perch, invisible, beside my chair
and rock and leer and cackle
at my efforts there

So, I retreat
across the long and tenuous passage
into the labyrinth of my genius
where both men and demons flounder
because no signboards are displayed
and compasses despair.