Coyotes listen to their hair; a bald cadaver,
Far from being exquisite, chewing the pages
Of random books stolen from the local library, scratches
Freight car walls with a blade of the scissors
It found on a sidewalk. The train delivers the void
To the East Coast nihilists, the engineer quarrels
With the guardian angel all the way, the whistles
Fall into the sky, coyotes listen to their hair.


Say, how often a middle class family living in a nice neighborhood
has to clean their drains, gutters, downspouts, air ducts,
fiber-optic and copper cables, sump pits, fireplaces, etcetera?
What can they discover in the process if they do it on, say, a Thursday in the afternoon,
when a five-legged sun is sound asleep behind the clouds?
I, for instance, would certainly pick up a violin because I hate the sound of it.
That violin would be very much alive but sick to the core as any dead tree in the vicinity,
And the void inside it would make noises like a changeling that hadn’t got a piece of silence.

{from the comments on tourists vs. travelers}