His hands belong to the hammer And the hammer to the spikes. Every day, ground is harnessed From San Francisco to Vancouver. Exhale, and the muscles in his shoulders Kiss the dirt and the strain. One foot buried deep, the other to hold him steady, Smearing life thin between the tracks.
Now, every breath he stuck in the dirt Can still be felt Rushing into your skin Head out the window Of these cars, tethered to midnight.
This is the only life Where progress and purpose Paint themselves in the sutra of our eyes And it is here that I wish I lived.