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Late when the night has swollenand the edge of the sky is bruised |
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I'll wonder if the scene is castby accident or by design |
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We will leave our feather lungs, as nameless as when we arrived, |
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Every breath and belly laugh will teach us how to die again, |
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Each calloused hand and fingertip is a kite-string to a morning hour, |
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Where light will fancy you a friend and greet you with a wink and nod |
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Every breath and belly laugh will teach us how to die alone, |
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For light will pull her curtains closed and whisper every parting word |
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Late when the night has swollen,and the edge of the sky is bruised,marching with a flag in hand,we'll be sending up our final flares |
