After a Radio-Broadcast of Sorabji’s Gulistan, as Played in his Castle.

I broadcast from the living-room

a green wind through the rose-garden

music is what things say: things say

this is the sound of inside.

Use your head to save your feet

they told me, but what they meant

was follow, follow the tables and chairs

elusive as friends to where you are. In.

This is the sound of where she comes up with it

tour of old poets houses, the seat of

“unaltering wrongness that has style”

and yet alters, altars.

Tables and chairs, dear faces of

conspirators I never knew, singing the

song of matter, mater, that urgent agent

I love the stuff. In love the estate, Simurgh 

we are, fellowship of the cup, or a saucer

its suitors crowded in the infinitesimal

tremblings of vision. Lethe is dust falling in the

sofa’s shadow, and the mind, holding

its golden wand sneezes her fervid oracle.

Nhan chu, Vietnamese of my body

it means face owner. Who says? It is the first

of our audacities, to pretend there is a face to things.