I'm like a loose canon
buried beneath her head
and underneath her clothes,
she knew it was me
but she wasn't concerned
or happier to see me.

I've sold headless men
to keep the roof over my hair
and wind under my shoes.
But they say the sole is in the wrist
and our eyes betray us
even when closed.

So God, I'm afraid
you picked a late date to call me back to work.
From where I've been staying
the world is a prettier place to me,
even with these dirty leaves in my bed
and this dead thing my chest.

She knew it was me.
Could she be colder than to ignore me?

Mother, wreck this rock to sand
so that I may lay it in her hands
and she won't be able to hold it
through her fingers like I lost her glance,
through my fingers.

Subtle outside,
subtle inside out as well.
But she could see the whole time.
And she knew it was me.

She's like a loose glove
worn over bruises of the thumbs
that we try to hide and she hides us well.
She's like a grown dove,
flying so high above,
high above and beautiful
and out of our pitiful reach.

Lover, she said, "Nothing could lead me from this bed,
or this memory of you."
And she knew it was me.

Life is so far away
from the desert, I've become
Locked inside her head and she in mine,
though I say hi
and she walks by without so much as a sigh
and she knew it was me.

Cranes make love in the dark
and she hated darkness,
but the light wasn't good enough
so she had to glow.
Flowing down the papers
like a river in the forest.

I tried to tell her not to go there
it was dangerous and numbing to the feeble,
but she wouldn't listen
and I wouldn't dare
give a hand or lay a finger
on the hair of her head,
where I am.
She knew it was me.

I'm locked away and disturbed,
lost inside eccentric words
and the curves of her dress
what a mess I was in when she blessed me,
oh how she blessed me.
Taking me into her voice and ear
and she knew it was me.

Tell her not to lose hope.
Just look to the stars and rain
if she wants a prayer again and she'll find
an answer to a question by a liar,
and if she chooses either way she'll be happy.
Just continue with her laughter
and her dance.
And if she doesn't hate me I'll go slowly,
if I don't hate her
even though I can't,
she'll see an eye in the storm of conclusions.

Just a web of salted cries
she tangled herself within and I;
and I got out by falling to my death,
but she's too busy
charming the spiders,
being the most beautiful fly
ever caught by the spiders eye
and mine.
And when I cried for a hand,
she said goodbye, but not to me.
She looked away.
And she knew it was me.
She knew it was me.

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