how it rattles windowcasings?
And you've passed the last turn-off for New Rochelle,
and shouldn't you be further along by now?
And the clouds are parting fast, and
you ascend so fucking fast
your temple rattles on the frosted pane.
The ghost of Bernoulli is gasping in the grave.
Well, the lace would be white
if not for William's hands
through the window between the oaks.
Wearing drugstore wire-rims and
with a voice like Naugahyde,
someone across the aisle addresses you.
But it isn't you she wants; you've turned too soon.
Well, the lace would be white
but not for William's hands
on the window, and you out in the oaks.
And the blanket's brown,
but now William's gone
with the whiskey, curtains drawn.
On the bridge on your lawn your sister
cartwheels holding her breath, and outside
Chattanooga, traffic's getting bad.
Other people's words are all you have.
{listen}