The softest voice dripped on me tonight having noticed I always seem to be heavy, alone, sopping wet, and alright The nearest place to where I could flee was the putrid crab shack of insight where I insist nothing has happened to me The cool tidal depth of twilight tows me up a mulberry tree it strings my spine quite upright The silent correspondent lost somewhere at sea I'm still waiting, rapt, for her postcard, despite knowing we'll never again be three