The sun lights through the window
And a scattering of rainbows slants
Across your eager eyes.

Nothing comes from nothing,
That’s the way it’s always going to stay.

A poet scribbles down a line or two
To keep himself quiet—
You set fire to his pages and
The words all smoke into the air.

Stitch a needle full of fumes and sow yourself a coat;
You’re as good as making nothing.

Under the rural darkness, they formed into a circle.
‘Keep your secrets,’ they whispered, smiling—
Even from the distant hills
The shrieks of the dogs made more noise at night.

If you’re afraid, be afraid,
This is nothing you can understand.