LANGUAGE IS MADE IN THE KITCHEN

If language is made in the kitchen,

the heart, they say, is the bedroom.

If the heart is the bedroom,

delirium’s its master.

Birds’ eyes transmit delirium;

the boy playing with the trumpet-mute

confessing turmoil

is merely the rhythm

the brain can’t dream,

one parcel of time’s wasteland.

The boy toying with the mute admits

yet doesn’t understand:

sterile seeds

produce no forms.

Each seed is a reason

wanting to say

reason, like a street address,

says nothing. The cigarette-smoking barbarians

wordlessly crush walnuts

on the tabletop. They say

all discussion

should stop—when

horses go silent,

gazing at human eyes.