Robin Blaser
Who's There?

the room talks to itself

                       coloured Persian

and wraps its thinking-

                       lights around

the man bent over

                 a drinking fountain

who is black

            and white

who transliterates

                 into one crouching

over his book

             of loose pages

and another clapping

                    his hands and pointing

his toe

       playing musical chairs

and chances

           among deep-seated minds

whose laughter counter-

                       points the razzle

of crows outside

                cawing down the chimney

as if to enter between


serious, childish, jasper eyes

                              the room talking to itself

The East Village Poetry Web