The house repeats itself
In the hammer blows
At the wound-site
Where the sky
Is still bruised above the radio tower
Long ago destroyed by narcoleptics
And when the curtain parts its lips
It is only the empty morning stuttering
Tapping on the pane
With a branch
Having forgotten its keys
We think how stupid of it
But our skulls are on the outside
When we run and finally disappear
Our families keep recording
