| He leaned in and whispered as he turned the page
|
| And he said, «Make yourself into a flame»
|
| A crazy old lion with his hair all backlit
|
| Grinnin' like a little boy who has a secret
|
| And I do not know its name
|
| Though it’s ever entwining
|
| And I believe it must look
|
| Like an old man shining
|
| We were eatin' summer peaches
|
| By a roadside stand
|
| Juice running down like laughter
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| On our chin and on our hands
|
| When we were done, we looked around
|
| And smiled at each other
|
| And you said
|
| «Come on, Carrie, let’s have another»
|
| And I do not know its name
|
| No matter how I try
|
| But I believe that it must taste
|
| Like peaches eaten by the roadside
|
| He drove a rental car shuttle
|
| To the airports on Sundays
|
| We chatted that gray morning
|
| 'Bout the choir he sang with, Wednesdays
|
| He sang a haunting gospel hymn
|
| Shameless and clear
|
| With only me, a wandering stranger
|
| Sitting there to hear
|
| And I do not know its name
|
| Elusive and subtle
|
| But I believe it must sound
|
| Like that man singing in the shuttle
|
| Standing in the river, barefoot in the current
|
| I hear the sound of a bird call and I try to learn it The water is a wonder, it’s cold and fast and deep
|
| I saw the fish go swimming out too far for me to reach
|
| And I do not know its name
|
| Swimmer or watcher
|
| But I believe that there is always something
|
| Moving beneath the water
|
| If holy is a sphere
|
| That cannot be rendered
|
| There is no middle place
|
| Because all of it is center
|
| I do not know its name
|
| I do not know its name
|
| I do not know its name |