Who is to say

    that the House of Tongues is not that place

    where rats swarm around your feet

    under blooming sofas

    is not that place

    of poisoned snows， pens run dry

    and secrets now too late to know

    and certainly the murmuring there below

    was a mur-  was a mur-  was a

    murmuring almost to be heard

    a bubbling like water

    invisible， underneath

    And look the shadow of a wing

    does fall here as blood

    does drink deeply of itself

    and does whisper yes for no

    Once these faces behind glass

    might have returned your glance

    might even have gathered up

    their limbs， in order to stand

    Who is to say

    that certain of their words did not spill out

    as far as the eyes of cats could see

    across the river in the dark