I will no more let anyone sing to me,
or hear their words as truth, or follow
the story-line woven. That pillow with
the weaving of a lamb upon it, I do not
like. All those blues and grays just seem
off-color. And once - upon the highway -
I swear I saw your aorta in the gutter. The
one I pulled from your heart but thought
I'd saved. I guess lost all memory long ago.
Now, here we are, driving north to that weary
precipice again : the car sputters and stalls, itself
knowing it doesn't wish to go on. You had that
cabin in the woods, all those years before, that
your regal family kept in trust. We used it often.
The fences, though they'd fallen and some wood
had rotted off, they kept the pretty certain outlines
of the yards between the hills. We never did get lost.
But, oh, a million times we tried.
And yes, a million times we tried.