Lets live where there are five seasons
Instead of the two where we are.
Lets build up our houses from cardboard,
And drink our tea black from Darjeeling,
Lets ignore our hatred of all their spices,
Lets pretend we love the smell,
Lets sail away from everything
And leave distractions at the sea.

Your wrists were the limbs
From the willow tree,
Your skin the soft leaves
That encompassed me.

Your ribs were the cage,
Where the birds did sing,
Of lovely and gentle and
Dangerous things.

_{And I'm just a floating}
^{broken down scheme.}

Your trains were the large ones,
The freighters, the long ones.
They carried your nightmares
And freedom’s distortions.

They ran up your arms,
And over your chest
They followed the tracks
That seemed to work best.

Then one day they crashed,
And nothing was left
Except your scared body
And hopeless regrets.

I am certain then, that it was this,
The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock,
That brought me to this great abyss.
Or perhaps a Road Less Traveled,
But ultimately, the Bible
Since it was there that words sprang forth
The first about God and blood
Then love and pain, and chastity
That lay naked in the streets
Clutching locks of hair and dirty sheets
And angles saved from rape,
With the offering of daughters
And an ass that spoke the truth
Though death came quick to follow.
Giants, demons, witches, pigs,
Judges, battles, loves lost, death
And birds that would mean peace.
It all says something more to me.

Scribbles, that’s all that was left
On one side of a receipt,
I’ve forgotten from what address,
And that’s why he kept it,
For the scrawls I’d drawn on back