I've bent back the angles of grass built beneath trees
with my shallow form that languishes where only shadows
are free. I've seen some new colors when tasting old maths,
and think of you softly next to me upon these cool blades
of grass.

They built an iron cathedral in the city that always sleeps
to worship the blacksmith who designed the reliefs.
And inside the shrine there, they have only a battered
hammer and some beliefs, and inside the pews there
they nailed their parishoners to their seats.

You trembled on the white tile
like a bird inside some hurricane,
they poised their needles like drawn daggers
and broke their teeth upon your knuckles
like porcelain shards in a weather beaten
antique store frequented by sane old folks,
the ones you know that always were broke,
and you called them down from the Tower's
hurricane with the sound of thunder in
your refrains. There's nobody out there,
its just the wind playing with the rain,
there's somebody out there, in the wind
playing with the summer rains.

I see your hands confusing others with the gestures
of wicked stepmothers, I see your eyes all black
with blood and murder minds will start the flood
because I know you are out there,
among the burning theater seats,
I know you went out there
to your father's relief.

Tall black towers raised against the luminous sky
small black hours erased the finer parts of mind.

Here I lay, sword in hand upon the detailed grass,
here I pray, sword in mind, embedded in stained glass.

Call me names, call me promises, call me answered for
in class, call me locked in call me locked out call me
drunk and on the phone, just don't call me winter
after all the sun I've shown.