| I dreamed you were a cosmonaut
|
| of the space between our chairs
|
| and I was a cartographer
|
| of the tangles in your hair
|
| I sighed a song that silence brings
|
| it’s the one that everybody knows
|
| oh everybody knows
|
| the song that silence sings
|
| and this was how it goes
|
| these looms that weave apocryphal
|
| they’re hanging from a strand
|
| these dark and empty rooms were full
|
| of incandescent hands
|
| and awkward pause
|
| a fatal flaw
|
| time it’s a crooked bow
|
| oh time’s a crooked bow
|
| in time you need to learn to love
|
| the ebb just like the flow
|
| grab hold of your bootstraps
|
| and pull like hell
|
| ‘till gravity feels sorry for you
|
| and lets you go
|
| as if you lack the proper chemicals to know
|
| the way it felt the last time you let yourself
|
| fall this low
|
| time
|
| oh time
|
| it’s a crooked bow
|
| time’s a crooked bow
|
| fifty-five and three-eighths years later
|
| at the bottom of this gigantic crater
|
| and armchair calls to you
|
| yeah this armchair calls to you
|
| and it says that
|
| some day
|
| we’ll get back at them all
|
| with epoxy and a pair of pliers
|
| as ancient sea slugs begin to crawl
|
| through the ragweed and barbed wire
|
| you didn’t write you didn’t call
|
| it didn’t cross your mind at all
|
| and through the waves
|
| the waves of a.m. squall
|
| you couldn’t feel a thing at all
|
| you’re fifty-five and three-eighths tall
|
| time |