Between the lonely moments
  And the "I'm so glad you're here's"
And the end of a scotch glass,
Or one too many beers

Between ugly and healthy and
   Birds who forced bees,
  I've finally learned
You were never against me.

We always say
the sun
  goes down,

but we're the one
who turns away.

There's a time when song
tells me

and there's the time I let
her be

And then there's the time
I am
begging
for her to come and
speak to me.

I'm working the trade
of
tethered souls
where it won't stop
raining and I can't
let it go.
Where thunder never seemed so soft against
a field of buzzing strings in an
orchestra it's like the
plague
and even when
my hands are
black from all the digging
this ensues...
I'm working the trade of
tethered souls
and I've
chained
myself to
make do.

I'm aware of the things that come from the woods.

The brooding water paths pushing to the west.
A quiet sprinkling of pine
  needles and
flooding near the
Ash Groves when the winters come

the winter's spent.

Cities are strangers and pavement is trapped soil
waiting for my hands to dig them up and build a
refuge out of dying-to-get-out-of-here-dirt

I'm dying to get out of here dirt.

I left myself in the absent way
a butterfly leaves the cocoon but do not know of what

I'm seek
  ing .

At civil dawn
I'm counting -
the seconds where it's
indisputable the sun
moves
where names get caught in
time that invariably
forges on
I'm getting caught up, spun around, lost in the cogs of a
stranger's swan
song.

I imagine petals sound like
a star spray of
harp song
  when they fall on
a dreamer's tilled
land
and that Azaleas grow
  in a backwards life
where time isn't counted by
clock hand
  You have painted
a Floristry of roses
in a neglected girl of a
wasteland.