Where I Travel To

The cat disappeared into the dark—
this was his music, sad and ancient.

But smiling. Where on earth?
I fastened myself to the future with a set of pins.

Felt my way to the tomb. My family was waiting there.

The sounds were the brilliant beginnings
and ends of other sounds.

Buildings of sleep pushed up, and on the
other ends of the blowing streets, buildings of wakefulness.

This city and its sounds were dilemmas of thought.
Who worked them into these porous surfaces?

Butchers at their tables. Pathologists. Nuns.

Hearing. Slow canto.
The gleaming one piece of my eye.

Action then in the terrified room:
the storytelling old men of war, the harps.