Wrong talking strings call what we were
A little into question
Displays happen in the unrolled fist in the sun
Always the wrong happenings take too long to finally unfold:
The glare of sight,
The much later moisture of paradise, now
The eye finally rejects the looking.
The long dead talking head weeping at the
Sound of braided skin beating the empty drum.
Just down there
The music asks
what is home?