My childhood, lopsided, crumbs, trouble, clear-sighted and leaning up
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against the Sellotape the apples back on while they were ripe, sticking to
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our story every time.
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We stood there, same mischief, same background, shame-chagrin with hands
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behind our backs and our eyes faced down. We'd celebrate the victory of
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buckets and doors, smiling all the way out the front door.
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How I longed to hold her hand, how I longed to touch her face, how I longed
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to hear a sound, come from that phone, from far across the town.
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That night when all went to hell I thought we'd never see the thorns pulled
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out of our poor old toes. We'd imitate the noises that we thought we should
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make, howling at the wind and our mistakes.
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How I longed to touch her hand, how I longed to see her face, how i longed
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to hear a sound, come from that voice, from far across the land.
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-----------------
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The Victory Of Buckets And Doors
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| Uniform Motion |
