"Joliet," she says, "is the darkest part of a man?
|
It's angry and slick
|
Into her letters writes
|
through herself each time
|
she thinks of him
|
|
Trips her way down south
|
into mystery's mouth
|
and he follows her there
|
It's what she doesn't say
|
that makes you want to stay
|
and try to comfort her
|
|
I talked to the cousins of people who knew you
|
I asked them the questions they expected to hear
|
Like maybe a killing went down in your town
|
Maybe it's the prison
|
or the birth of barbed wire
|
|
"Joliet," she says, "is the darkest part of a man?
|
It's shaped like liberty's bell
|
cracked and common law
|
and stretched out over its flaws
|
like an ink-less well
|
|
The hanging judge in town
|
records her comments down
|
she saves the crowd the truth -
|
and deals with it herself
|
Fills that hollow well
|
with nothing left to prove
|
|
I talked to mountains and streams that pushed through there
|
I talked to the trees that had no fruit to bear
|
to the colorless people that sat there
|
beneath her
|
curled up, stared
|
|
I talked to the cousins of people who knew you
|
I asked them the questions they expected to hear
|
Like maybe a killing went down in your town
|
Maybe it's the prison
|
or the birth of barbed wire
|
|
Joliet
|
|
-----------------
|
Joliet
|
| Seven Mary Three |
