Room 171

October 15, 2016

a tragedy without theatre  
and so much theatre without tragedy:
when will this night, the world, pass away,
sang the man with a black hat, so far from here
the white city of the western lands
where the boat of the dead slides through drowsy caves
of mind, and seven souls like clockwork
insects fly, one inside the other, after
the other. Ashes of ideas
and names, dust of artifacts like those in cards
you played as a kid – land, lotus, djinn
a shadow is awake where the coffin stands.

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