his thrill against the widow's cord;

snakes his fingers in the web

eight aching, crawling branches

where his hands have met her legs

six sick fingers on the mend

I let the wind come

and do nothing about it

I let the wind come,

and do nothing about it

He was asking for an accident

And he had asked for it so long

It was quiet conspicuity
It was a whisper of a song
And whether mid-day,
night, or morning

I could have sworn that it had gone

"Let me in, let me in"

I could have sworn that it had gone

"Let it out, let it out"

I could have sworn that it had gone

"Pick it up, put it down,"

It was frightened ambiguity
Dandelioning along
It was frozen in the postal-state
It was a letter never drawn

Tremors halving contiguity
Whatever I'd like, whatever I'd like

Tomorrow towards the turnpike's tongue

It was quiet, but I knew it wasn't right