Who is to say
that the House of Tongues is not that place
where rats swarm around your feet
under blooming sofas
is not that place
of poisoned snows， pens run dry
and secrets now too late to know
and certainly the murmuring there below
was a mur- was a mur- was a
murmuring almost to be heard
a bubbling like water
invisible， underneath
And look the shadow of a wing
does fall here as blood
does drink deeply of itself
and does whisper yes for no
once these faces behind glass
might have returned your glance
might even have gathered up
their limbs， in order to stand
Who is to say
that certain of their words did not spill out
as far as the eyes of cats could see
across the river in the dark
