inthenighti
don't leave.
don't leave--
don't let the tracks take you, i'm
telling you, i'm begging you, please
don't leave, i
don't have much else.
the whistle used to cut through my sleep and
these days all i can think about is
the iron and the heat, the
rocks spit up into the air--
almeno, be honest and
tell yourself the truth, please, i
just don't want you to go.
i might love you, i might not.
i might do the grocery tomorrow. i may mop the floor. i might get postcards and stamps and send at least five letters--i might hit something. i might throw the chair out the window. i might climb up the hill and water the plants and color the sky or i might stay at home and do nothing and call my voicemail and let my feet dangle out the window.
i might still love you tomorrow. i might not.
in tan
dem they
fl
ew
up up u
p up and
a
way
sunday.
you were like sunday to me.
soft and full and sweet and good--
you would raise your hands, a
conductor, and sing and laugh and
speak all of the good things i
waited so long to hear.
on sundays you spoke God, and
on sundays i saw you both.
it's hard for me to tell
if i've ever rested since then.