The face glimpsed in the broken tile, half lost
Under river water and memories,
Shading two parts Baudelaire, one part Freud,
And three parts malignant elf, does not smile.
He's still in this game, and he's still cheating,
But these are not his gods, not his rulers,
Not his rules. He lives in the woods and lies
In the teeth of each Götterdämmerung
That aims to spit him out. I still love him,
Even though I know his old deviltry
Is no good for me. We all need devils,
Most of all ourselves, to play pranks on us,
But the day moves on, until I lose track
Of that trick of the light created him.