They're

A clang upstairs, then quiet. Then
scowling muffles escalated chatter,
static shouts, knives from each other,
the couples’ black throats’ meter.
The hall’s decay.

Steps stop there;
clip back and forth
across the ceiling, austere ice
chip heels, Centaurs.

An imagined stare,
then silence, then sadness.
Denseness, the solid space of
a room.

Down here,
a cold white sun, winds of snow ice
rip the panes, the white-yellow beams
bashing like broomsticks,

And the demon in the parlor
drinks Chamomile tea.