each is a house.
each one
solid, built.
i trudge to reach them through sleet
and spilled milk.
when i am crying.
each house i am spoiled to visit.
"here is another room, you say,
you are welcome to sit if you may"
and i do.
so with each chord there is a ribbon
to place on the scar
makes me want
makes me weep
oh sweetheart, to be where you are.
sometimes i feel i was written for you-
i am missing all these pages,
these pages you've used
to construct red brick houses
and telephone booths
their absence is felt every day.
and it haunts me you know of each pulsing bruise-
of each nightmare and dream.
to find their key and write tunes
or the lullabye too
before stealthily sung back to me.
and each is a room.
ruby, lined.
i rest in that peace without sleep
or red wine.
when i am trying.
each room i am rushing to open.
"just another space," you say,
"i may have been here- now i've gone away"
and it's true.
yet with a cord and a toolbox
you could temper my spine
makes me hunger
makes me wonder
oh
sweetheart,
if i'll ever
be fine.
