It isn’t always going to feel like this, is it?
The metal chair, with wind behind my hair.
I bend, I bend, I bend.

He was taller than a demon,
Sun radical and terminal beside the bed,
The burning outlines of the comic strip man.

Black eyes in velvet folds hold out for me
Because they know.
And I know too, somehow.

Lightly, oh how lightly, on the wood
I hear them prying out the nails. Their teeth
Cause me no end of worry, because

I can always hear. The swing moves through
My skin and it spins in my blood with the infinite
Touch of the sea

Anchored, I wait for the bolt, and I sit in the bend.
Attend, if you care, for the sound is my friend.