Notes from a small island
A weblog by Jonathan Ali

Friday, May 18, 2007  


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


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