the asphalt and decay
in the cities that remain
dance like mountains on horizons

and all the make believe
and four-horsed catastrophes [bad word] songs that sing
like 9 volt batteries
always burning the tips of tongues

in the darkened woods we shared
all the melodramatic fare

when we'd sleep in cars
or in the darkened fields
sliding through the mud
under [bad word] down the roads

past telephone poles
falling in time
parallel to our spines

when the leaves'd flutter
in the disappearing light
crawling through the woods
on elbows through the dirt
or huddled in diesel vans
trying to understand the street signs ahead
that disappear too fast

clock hands search around
for things that can't be found
always spinning in denial

all the things we gauge
from the silence that depraves

the melodies that hit
while our attention shifts
to planes that move the sky above

and staccato violins play
all the songs we cannot name

empty parking lots
and winding one way roads
traced around by firs
and mossy power lines
couldn't reveal the answers
to the torrential downpours
or the questions that dance
on the tips of all our tongues

the birds in your chest
try to reveal all the names
of the subtle little things
we'd try to understand
and the planes overhead
that hum their own two cents
tell us that we'll never know
of what's and could's and if's

planes move the blue sky
while violins play by and by
and our attention always shifts