She sang starling in the dying noonish air
Whether the benches knew or no
Our finger slipped for better wear
And down we went onto the grass
We cupped the leaves so scattered there.

We both saw what was to come
Took our solace from a wint’ring sky
Tombstones flat against our backs,
And the wine in the folds of plams,
While I stopped singing
“Ya’arbernee.”

I sang nightingale and knew she would not hear
Turn up the music, baby, all sad songs
Sing the same, sing the same,
But I was looking for a love song, drowned
In the bitter verses of by-gone haunts.

I found I could only speak in epitaphs,
A cat drank water from a parchment leaf,
Of which we wrote our histories, Troys apart
But we only brought ourselves to think
On the weeds.
Turn up the music, baby, I want to sing
I want to sing starling.
Something sweet on the Reaper’s Bow
These breezes chill me, spurn us both
Twist your hair as was my oath.

She sang nightingale but to the distance
In which I buried it deep and blamed myself
I could be the good boy and kept the cards I’d dealt.
Talking loosely between tight lips
We felt the moment go in between sips.