Empty pocket... take hold of the lamb's ear between your thumb and finger... all pilled and threadbare.
I'll lead you down from the hip towards the falls...
Azalea-blushed, turned red so slow we couldn't remember
If it was ever pink at all.
Canary's throat is pink and ribbed with sailor's songs..,
Remembrances and cursing the black hole.
Poor son of a bitch, couldn't even fly for the mist...
Can't remember the ocean but felt the pitch and roll in her chest.
This path, it tightens off.
I hear the ocean in it's depths...
Past the flowstone and the icicle fence.
Cocksure sailor, you're polished gypsumand warm milk shore-leave-abandon and lashes heavy from the mist.
I'll lead you down..
Canary's song caught in her throat...
Closed off sharp and crystalline.
Her songs still hang in the tracery.
Poor son of a bitch, couldn't even fly for the mist....
Color leached out so slow she couldn't remember if she was ever pink at all.
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