break-in

and there's hair on the floor, and floor

on my feet

and there's a carpet somewhere,

where the places all meet

and there're chairs on the rug

cause it's there and they're near

and they talk in such words

in such ways you can't hear

and the doors all are open,

some broken right in

and the night men and ninjas

and dogs all come in

and they see the rug there,

with it's scrapes and it's lines

and they see all the chairs

their words soft, and combined

and they all change all their names

for the sake of the public

and they know not.to.be. noticed

IN the chairs or among them

so they paste back the doors,

and they quietly leave,

and the winter winds shift,

and the trees lose their leaves

gone the doors to the words of the tables and chairs

and the floors mumble too

under illusion, stares

and they way is then masked, and

it's clouded, with musk

as the leaves, and the sun,

dripping under with dusk