There is not enough silence in this cavern of telephones.
When do you expect you’ll arrive, this coming you speak of?
The world crawling in your lap.
Years now and we’re still at war,
and what comes back? Who opens the door?
Let them in just a little bit
while you’re making the bed.
The lights go up on his horizon
and all is not forgiven, city blocks full of our undoing.
It’s too much with the world shrinking
and here is Africa between your ribs and full of starch and silver.
So go there—bring a well of help on a cloud of cash
and the highest hope to be beyond human, to save even yourself.
All the trips are not far enough,
Overwhelmed by the world in a dirty dish—the water turned stranger on the run.
Trouble is we’ve grown so fond of our flesh and homes.
Who’s wearing the front page on her naked chest—no one.
Bring back the tricks, the camera man and his bowtie,
I miss the taste of tin and brand-name snacks.
My umbrella’s not big enough for this—
All these angels falling down to pieces.
Enough about the weather, real lives are being lost.
And I’m tempted to throw myself out the picture frame.
But this suit is so nice and her thighs are right here.
I’d make you a card if I thought it would outlast the second we had.
Evacuate that heart of all its longing and silence beats,
When do I get to become a song, on the valley wind?
Not soon enough. But soon.