The Ghosts Sing Songs at Home

Of all the things that could come
To pass, none of them are this,

That is, this that is as this
Is just now. The things that could come

Can’t be what goes past as it
Goes past, this song of the ghosts.

Here’s the green mound of the steppes,
A phrase that hangs on the edge

Of sense, that is, if it came
From throats that could wet their lips.

It comes from words came from words.
The tales have no name for this,

Song of what is, which is this,
The ghosts at home in dry grass.