in my garden
there's a feeling
of your fingers buried
beneath the snow

your hands as strong
diamond blades
but now we need to go

in my living room
the universe
leaks in through open windows

i try to dig you out of our suede couch
but the cushions fall too low

my old bedroom
hums a cleaning tune
of polka styled Sundays

you never understood
my floral sheets or any of my ways

in my driveway
bottle rockets lit
shooting past our skulls

you couldn't look at me
or anything that screamed romance at all

finally i see the bible green
craft woven through the fields

all i see is our lord savior
lighting cigarettes revealed