From the front of the conference room

He wraps us in a voice born of the pulpit

Buttery and gravelly and low

 

He floats down from the makeshift stage

Tells of the flying fish

Gives us magic sunglasses

So we can see through water

 

He's here to talk about new eyes

To see what under(lies)

 

He's selling a new language

In it, we write our morality on the wall

Through our new eyes

It doesn't look like money

 

The half-bald man in the blue shirt

Gives all the words to the economy

He sells his poetry

It's not poetry anymore

 

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