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Taking a tip from the agents,
I walked an oblivion white,
A negative skeleton image,
Trod by things that go bump in the night,
An essayer without a thesis,
I scratched question-marks on the trees,
With my eyes I surmised all the secrets,
And the telephone pole's knobby knees,
And so chanting my whims in a whisper,
I was blowing hot smoke through the air,
The descent of the sun well behind me,
I was trying to get to Nowhere,
Home was still floating in memory,
Smells of burnt-eggs and sassafras,
A live tension marbled with misery,
A field of broke bottle glass,
So sugar, call for me no longer,
In my heart I have no home to go,
Out here, far away, I am stronger,
Just cutting my way through the snow
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