listless, she lit up
filled a cup and lifted
because if you wag your cigarette right
you're cold but you're classic.


Remember the Sanctamire Treehouse?
Something gray happened there.
Mother said her romance novels smelled like smoke for five days after
And my femurs turned into seven-hundred finger-bones
at the mere mention, oh, the shudder in the mansion,
And I remember but only how that place would shake in a storm.

He spun and hit his shin
One big shiver and the roof sinks in.
Bad news gnaws the bed for seven days
Your head, your head
Your head, your head
He's blending in with the bedding more and more
Still as settled snow below the lips
Leans over slowly
And suddenly I'm old but you'll never know it.

I touched my lips.
I touched your hand.


There are swallows in the barn loft,
They were gypsies in my throat.
Golden golden golden,
We're running in the secret note.