Dear Noam Chomsky,

Before the sun, a bird. Before the bird a dream that slipped

away like a tail in a wall crack. How much of nothing

can even  the IRS tax? I know a few things about nothing.  

I know it throws open all the doors & leaves you waiting

anxiously, the coffee brewed, for yourself to come home.
Every cop in the world, bare-assed, hiding in the closet.