All my words for sadness, like Eskimo snow on unmanned crosses, all
Planted in threes in a field for living trees
Are hummed as prayers in secret
and sung through speakers in rooms for people to hear it
Even when I'm wasted and numb
With the words for good wine on a philistine's tongue
And I'm under something black
and thicker than a sheet for ghosts
or the first feet of snow that old,
that old clouds yield
On the crosses on the chests of dead soldiers in a field, and I'm...
and I'm still here
Bearing my watery fruits, if fruits at all
and I'm still here,
barely understanding what truth that rarely calls
then i'm still here,
bearing my watery fruits, if fruits at all
barely understanding what truth that rarely calls