In Through the Out Door

How vocal are the dead souls

In the minds of those looking back!

They set flames to the windowsills

Through which they peer

While day gives out

And cedes its light

To the cold, dark night

Still...

Still as the specters

Unmoved by vanishing vision.

...

How silent the living

Who despite their incessant chattering

Incessant bumbling

Move about symbol-less

Draw no conclusions

But (noun),

and (ad_) (verb)

...

How evil,

How vile the language!

How prone to illusory function!

A disintegrating bridge,

A raft of sponge.

We go in through the out door,

We who learned not to speak.

We go in through the out door,

And climb back over turnstiles.