There Are Peripheries . . .

There are peripheries of excellence, Small towns where crafty robbers never chance A bank, but also where no buildings tower Breathlessly out of the street. Yet there is power. And ladies who have not had princes to tea, Have lived completely out of mystery But are mysterious as they declare Their views on table manners, babies, war. And lovers bounding on back seats of cars, Crude, unlovely, talking clichés about stars; These, too, know heightened minutes just before The muscles ease, then say What else? What more?