The Charnel House

There is a place,
and there is not a place
with one million rooms.
And in every cheaply
furnished space,
someone rolls the news.
A masklike orange patriarch
featureless over thoughts.
Below a tortuous flickering bulb,
in every room a box-
muted and all meaning lost.
A myriad displaced shapes,
crash about in ringing gloom
In the darkest place:
We are moths-
One in every room.