Sugar Dada

Go home. It's never what you think it is, The kiss, the diamond, the slamdance pulse in the wrist. Nothing is true, my dear, not even this Rumor of passion you'll doubtless insist On perceiving in my glance. Please just Go. Home is never what you think it is. Meaning lies in meaning's absence. The mist Is always almost just about to lift. Nothing is truer. Dear, not even this Candle can explain its searing twist Of flame mounted on cool amethyst. Go on home—not where you think it is, But where you would expect its comfort least, In still-black stars our century will miss Seeing. Nothingness is not as true as this Faith we grind up with denial: grist To the midnight mill; morning's catalyst. Come, let's go home, wherever you think it is. Nothing is true, my dear. Not even this.