It was the Rhapsody of Blue Heaven
that led them from the wreckage.
The sound bit their ears and nibbled until
they, with soft, contented sighs,
followed like tame sheep.
Starhouses, like birdhouses
rise to house the drifter,
the itinerant beggar,
the flotsam of civilization.
They arrive in the city;
the debris slips through power
cords, where the birds rest.
The cords weave like the palm’s lifelines,
and separates outlines, sidelines, and bylines:
The lullaby rain washes the lullaby land;
gently it falls down, gently.
And the bird-men in houses built by the sand,
While the rain—it falls down gently.
The men wake and slumber,
They fly to Birdland; they breathe in Rhapsodies.
They live in the lies of the sky-houses.