You may think I've gone
but I've got good news.
Make a wish:
twenty-five years later
I promise you a
red-draped room and
the correct words
for these sub-titles.
Filled with secrets
the shadow of a bird
passes above.
Sometimes
my arms bend back
and I feel like I know
something terrible.
Where we're from
a pretty song is
almost exactly like
sympathetic pain.
Dance around the table,
strange,
as oddly stilted
as your speech.
This dream is on your mouth.
You know who killed it now.
When two separate events
happen simultaneously
we must always pay strict attention to
the red thread of verification,
one chance out
between two worlds,
a sketch of futures past.
Wait till your turn
to sing over a circle of candles,
oh - I too have been touched
by fire, but when I saw the
face of God, I was changed,
a spell unseen.
See through this with me.
He moves over to her,
kneels,
takes a pill from a bottle,
drinks.
Silence rises,
slowly fighting
a dream that
distorted time.
The morning
shifts uneasily,
one way, then another,
one way, then another.
Draw the face
crouched in the corner,
vision intercut.
Woken, the air is troubled.
Can you feel it?
Stay, understand.
There's more to know
about memories, stitches.
Undressing a scream
out of the woods,
the hell dies away
from a clean house,
soaring primal.
Run. Run.
I will take care of it,
a background instinct.
Don't sleep, slumber;
something comes
off the speed of a long day,
hungry.
Gone for days,
headlights in a
stand of trees.
Leave something in there for me,
my brother,
hollow knot less than
what you owe.
Anticipate a
handsome aim,
never as much as
one would like.
The glove a switchblade,
wild as a girl.
Maybe someday we'll
sleep well, say goodnight with
a thing like that.
You don't know
what you've done,
teeth for a charm,
convinced of change.
Try not to show fear:
the weight of
this time of year
is a stranger,
funeral's joy.
The exertion of coma
don't get any easier;
correct it, discreetly.
You know
where to find me
when it's over.
I hear you're good at
what you do,
autopsy an all-nighter,
the morning scattered.
I wouldn't expect
anything less.
They're putting the girl
in the ground tomorrow,
her tongue a morgue,
door open, eye-to-eye.
Half the day's wasted
on our way
to be right
with you.
1990 - the hell,
I'm here,
ready to move off,
away from a catch,
false window
revealing things
about her
I didn't like:
shyly lucky,
how close you were,
my loneliness.
I didn't think
to take care.
Oh, I'd like to hear
I'm good,
really;
maybe my dad
will tell his story
about that.
Nobody's perfect,
my cigarette a tongue,
my crises a truth
none of them see.
