and all the sadder guests at the garden wedding
in their question-marked clothing
minds once sewn
with threads now unraveling
down to the roots
of dead trees.
Where are we that we are not home?
Where is home now that the world has turned black?
And you and all
and the gothic melancholy unconscious:
across the closed eyes of danceless dreamers
a singular mind amidst
the lot of them all, all
down between the cracks and grooves
of dead streets.
Where are we that we are where?
When did nowhere scream “now here” out of the cold walls?