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A pretty one-eyed girl |
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From the state of Maine |
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Can't see the church: |
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It's on the left side of her brain. |
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But it's clothed in browning leaves |
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And it wants to take her in, |
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And there's a Parson's robe inside that wants to feel her skin. |
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And the sleeves of warm, black cloth |
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Are hungry for her wrists, |
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And the first page of the Holy Book is hungry for her kiss. |
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She'll go home all alone |
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On the right hand of the interstate |
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And the church upon the hill |
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It will sit in browning leaves |
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And it will wait for her, wait to be together. |
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But she won't want it, ever. |
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It's like a dream I had: |
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This girl I went to see |
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And I can't sing her name, she might be listening to me |
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In a room of missing tiles we felt ourselves entwine |
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And she bit my tongue and shouted as I crawled into her mind. |
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It was full of singing mouths and apples in the air, |
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A soft, warm little room that was surrounded by her hair. |
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And, alone, when we awoke, |
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We stretched our legs and spoke |
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To the people we were sleeping with in voices not our own, |
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In the cool of our beds |
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With the words just dissipating |
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In the open air ahead, |
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And this other world just waiting until we're dead. |
