Breathe in and sing out;
anchor my soul on my tongue,
dearest, this is what I cried for.
Keeping my rhythm together,
like the thundering, resounding,
pounding hum of a gun sharp in the air
with its smoking aces pointed up;
but the truth's grated down on
my tongue like razorburn.
It hurts to talk, but I'd sing,
sweetness, and I'd whistle for you,
as long as you'd wait up to hear my song.
I'd carry the notes like doves among clouds,
weaving and careening and spelling out their
irresistible attraction in sing-song notes;
oh, how I'd love to feel your wings beneath my neck,
and my neck above your wings.
And we'd soar and climb and dive and shout,
"This is what we live for!" until the farmer
shoots us down, down, down,
in a lovely, bluebird spiral, locked together
falling in love one final time;
that's what I live for
