For Son of Slam 3... Our home is without rooms.
|In our home without rooms,
a sun-softened candle’s waxy,
becomes both metaphor and marvel,
blending art with emptiness.
Picasso runs blurry all over the place.
A self-painted prophet’s
echoes the un-walled everything,
blending absurdity with meaning.
Our window nook is now playing films:
a skyscraper peephole’s blinking
casts crooked glances indiscriminate,
blending metropolis with legend.
In our home without rooms,
a night-gentled whisper’s yielding,
becomes both sentinel and host,
blending welcome with goodbye.