| At your house | |
| The smell of our still-living human bodies and oven gas | |
| You pray to nothing out loud | |
| Two first names and an ampersand | |
| Embroidered proudly on a kitchen towel | |
| You're a beautiful and violent work | |
| With the skinny neck of a Chinese bird | |
| In a fading ancient painting | |
| And if you're in heaven waiting | |
| You made it there fighting | |
| The tightest kite string | |
| In a bad storm with lightning | |
| And now these few presidents | |
| Frowning in my pocket | |
| Can persuade no god | |
| To let me let you talk, oh | |
| These few presidents | |
| Frowning in my pocket | |
| Can persuade no god | |
| To let me let you off | |
| Even though I haven't seen you in years | |
| Yours is a funeral I'd fly to from anywhere | |
| I thought I had a pebble in my sock | |
| I pulled it off and shook out a wasp | |
| It stumbled out lost | |
| And without a pause | |
| Unstung as I was | |
| Still I stomped it | |
| I thought, there is no my paved street worthy | |
| Of your perfect Scandinavian feet | |
| Wha, wha, wha, my crooked Chinese fingers groped | |
| The machinery of your throat | |
| And now these few presidents | |
| Frowning in my pocket | |
| Can persuade no god | |
| To let me let you talk, oh | |
| These few presidents | |
| Frowning in my pocket | |
| Can persuade no god | |
| To let me let you off | |
| Even though I haven't seen you in years | |
| Yours is a funeral I'd fly to from anywhere |
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