Headlights race towards the corner of the dining room.
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Half illuminate a face before they disappear.
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You breathe in forty years of failing to describe a feeling.
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I breathe out smoke against the window, trace the letters in your name.
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Our letters sound the same;
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full of all our changing that isn't change at all.
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All straight lines circle sometime.
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You said "Somewhere there's a box full of replacement parts
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to all the tenderness we've broken or let rust away.
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Somewhere sympathy is more than just a way of leaving.
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Somewhere someone says 'I'm sorry.'
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Someone's making plans to stay."
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So tell me it's okay.
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Tell me anything, or show me there's a pull,
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unassailable, that will lead you there,
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from the dark, alone, to benevolence that you've never known,
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or you knew when you were four and can't remember.
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Where a small knife tears out those sloppy seams,
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and the silence knows what you silence means,
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and your metaphors (as mixed as you can make them)
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are linked, like days, together.
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I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right.
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I remember everything, lick
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and thread this string that will never mend you
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or tailor more than a memory of a kitchen floor,
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or the fire-door that we kept propping open.
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And I love this place; the enormous sky,
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and the faces, hands that I'm haunted by,
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so why can't I forgive these buildings,
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these frameworks labeled "Home"?
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|
-----------------
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This Is A Fire Door Never Leave Open
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| The Weakerthans |
