What do you want to find?
No city. No door. No place.
And a stone? A leaf? A door?
My father’s eyes desire stone
and angel. Hill-haunted,
the golden cities sicken
in his eye, the opulent dark,
sick with the million books.
What do you want to find?
I believe in harbors.
There is no happy land.
In my dreaming brain
silence spoke. My flesh
is dead and buried in these
hills. Nowhere. Nowhere.
You are your world.
Inevitable catharsis,
threads of chaos,
unswerving punctuality, an
absolute apexical summation.
No city. No door. No place.
What do you want to find?
michael jarmer 