Who Is To Say

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