We’ll stitch them and make each wool sleeve filthier
Sew each hem, then run your hands into the dirt
Each grass stain makes your legs all the more your own
To walk on the feet that we have weaved and sewn
Our homes were all brittle bones and brittle knees
We’re running, we’ll stagger in these redwood trees
No judgment except the times when we will steal
No sleep now we’ll gather in the windswept fields