A weblog by Jonathan Ali
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| Notes from a small island A weblog by Jonathan Ali |
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Friday, May 18, 2007 Armchairs I dreamed you were a cosmonaut Of the space between our chairs And I was a cartographer Of the tangles in your hair I sighed a song that silence brings It's the one that everybody knows The song that silence sings And this was how it goes These looms that weave apocryphal They're hanging from a strand These dark and empty rooms were Full of incandescent hands An akward pause, a fatal flaw Time, it's a crooked bow In time you need to learn to love The ebb just like the flow Grab hold of your bootstraps And pull like hell Til gravity feels sorry for you And lets you go As if you lack the proper chemicals to know The way it felt the last time you let yourself Fall this low Time, it's a crooked bow Fifty-five and three-eighths years later At the bottom of this gigantic crater An armchair calls to you And it says that some day We'll get back at them all With epoxy and a pair of pliers As ancient sea slugs begin to crawl Through the ragweed and barbed wire You didn't write, you didn't call It didn't cross your mind at all And through the waves The waves of a.m. squall You couldn't feel a thing at all You're fifty-five and three-eighths tall Fifty-five and three-eighths tall -- Andrew Bird posted by Jonathan | 3:47 PM 0 comments 0 Comments: |
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