Because everyone needs a roomy place, walls
for support, a home
                      rising from them.

Even Jacasser is the master there,
urbane, offering
a glass to a friend with open arms,
unafraid of treachery,
a whole bottle if it comes to that
                      and it does.

In the small hours the friend
hangs nailed to the wall
Jacasser awakes and remembers,
a yurt would make a lighter home,
the only real friends are in the wilderness,
every house a prison,
a stone house code for death.

The winds of the steppes were all his forefathers had to lean on,
                      the empty of space.