Sometimes we accidentally leave the front door
Intercom on and all the hubbub of the street
Enters the house. Smugglers of some ceaseless
Foreign transmission, we listen in on the dim,
Random sounds of life, as if that life
Were a conversation we’re taping.
Life on the street is harrowingly painful.
But comes to us strangely distorted,
As if pain and anguish didn’t exist, as if simply pure sound,
Ignoring the bleeding, the aging flesh. We think we hear,
My friend, life from the land of the dead,
Its vague sweet sounds.