Summer slid from the steeple tiles into the flowing dish
and we were all astonished she let go of heat like this.
Then we were gone again it seems, to green uncharted woods,
where the rivers roll and bend over backwards for their fish.
We returned to the late, great plains,
the unwounded and unchallenged stain,
to satisfy the saint we said
"You must keep clouds inside your head"
to satisfy the saint we lied
"You must put charity before pride."
So she drove to the sunset to ask the moon "How come?"
But the moon picked up the highway using the ocean as a thumb.
"I just can't understand," she said, "How you left me in this room
with the pieces of our shattered bed, this flashlight and no broom."
They say the ghetto lacks prescription pills and your baby's cavity.
You can drill and fill with porcelain, you can send that shit to sea.
And the chosen with their lotion, and their powders and their slaves
can afford the biggest heartaches with the headaches that they save.
Narrow hands must gather paradise on silver strands of grass,
or in the Redwood forest, in forgiveness or in wrath.
But she looked for it in love itself, in the pores of his drinking skin.
She found it in the doorway and that's where she offered it to him.
But her lover disappeared just like the blisters from his kiss
and she retired to her bedroom with the aching limbs of Sisyphus.
They say she pushed a boulder to the crest of some God forsaken hill
while the rest of chose to do without or else worship standing still.