there is a flag in my house and a farmer i pay
we placed the coins in the cracked hand of the tall farmer
his wife in plaid glowing round and ruddy beside him
and we sang to ourselves
different tunes
marching proudly home with our christmas pears
we placed the coins in the cracked hand of the tall farmer
his wife in plaid glowing round and ruddy beside him
and we sang to ourselves
different tunes
marching proudly home with our christmas pears
there must be singing and those tiny colored flags
we must string the triangles from window to window and through all the trees
red blue yellow orange blue hope
we must light up every delicate sparkling little woven piece of ice
keep alive keep alive keep holding
there is no tree falling alone in a forest, or new york sidewalk full of strangers, or back road leading into back road
that is lonely enough to resemble the feeling of being forgotten by a loved one.
when the house is mine, i let the stereo off her leash.
it is snowing in every memory i have of you
and you are always wearing that stupid blue shirt
the white and black will battle
in the grey matter
every year there are far fewer monsters in retrospect… and far more humans
i knocked
and you made a hollow sound
but we were young then
and our insides weren’t on our insides at all
but on our sleeves
oh darling
the forest has eaten my running legs and my fighting arms
i am all heart now
and for the taking