I had a strong hand that wound all the way
To China, where flowered bells
Searched high and low for answers to questions
Which held no meaning in reason.
I was the warrior, I was the show
Under the purple stair
Buried thirty feet under snow and hungry
For a story to tell:
And here is Tiresias, the blind old man,
Here -- there -- here -- again:
He is now going to tell it.
Where did you go yesterday that was not the place
Nor the reason you initially intended to arrive at?
And, yet, there you are: minus your feet,
Gloves, the albatross at the bow.
So what did this portend, softly,
As light goes from one dust beam to another,
Across from the sitter in the wooden chair,
The sun beam apple drop from dust beam to object,
And object to other object: Let me describe
Them for you: candlestick, chest of drawers, nexus.