Who speaks, because he does not know it, of home --
All that went missing has been collected in his mind
As a form like any other one.
The exalted ones, who hate their own bedrooms
And the ceramics piled precariously deep
Know only what home is not,
A promise they can never keep.
The ideal shines like an immovable star
Beyond the clouds that we see things through.
What are those openings of light?
How can I make them a part of my life?
In the playhouses they pull out of boxes
Any decor that sets the mood --
The backdrops are always subservient
To the lord of the avant-garde
As he minces with sword
And tears the arts district night into ribbons.
Home is where we go when it's done,
So we can freely critique the performance
Without our having to think
About the void that hears all we say.
