The songs we heard under the wooden porch
Are still carried in my ears – ringing something awful.
Sighing anger is dead when we’re away and the
Great, wet blue is hanging above – judging
Young and flat – we gently slipped into it
And that awful world brightly singed us to a crisp
As well as screamed at our small blackness and
The futile bites we flung back did not care – stopped
When the rain loves to bury old demons how
Can you and I weather through the dampness?
If you return, I trust you to have those homespun,
Childish songs on your lips – open and intact