we know of an ancient radiation.
that haunts dismembered constellations,
a faintly glimmering radio station.
while frank sinatra sings stormy weather,
the flies and spiders get along together,
cobwebs fall on an old skipping record.
beyond the suns that guard this roof,
beyond your flowers of flaming truths,
beyond your latest ad campaigns,
an old man sits collecting stamps
in a room all filled with chinese lamps.
he saves what others throw away.
he says that he'll be rich some day.
we know of an ancient radiation
that haunts dismembered constellations,
a faintly glimmering radio station.