I wander through these crowded rooms;
I’m neither vaunted nor maligned.
I whisper to the flower blooms
and tell them what is on my mind;
the plants and I, we are aligned
in matters of our needs and taste:
a water jug, a pungent grind—
we dwell among the noise and haste.

I dance beside a row of tombs;
it’s neither friendly nor unkind,
the banter that beneath me looms
from those who tie and those who bind.
A clearer voice I’ve yet to find,
a stronger pull I’ve never faced
than those in cypress crates, enshrined-
we dwell among the noise and haste.

I drift within the smoky plumes;
I’m neither saved nor left behind—
a junkie from the subtle fumes,
from echoes deaf, from cinders blind.
It seems my fate is sealed and signed,
my silent reveries debased,
then reconstructed, spittle shined-
I dwell among the noise and haste.