wind woke was the torch that summoned me unto your porch til into your parlor i give how can you still smile there you are it s been a while back to the tower where you live can i speak to you like i ve always wanted to with every eye on my face where you find my worth waking snakes out of the earth home is an hour not a place i m a screen doors wire i am drying flowers i m a postcard read filed and fed to it s place in the drawer winter in the south autumn from a northern mouth acts like the cruelest month did when i last was here happy to return my dear talk for a while and let s sit ample was the floor for sleeping in the clothes we wore that night we called it a bed with no fear of shame the nest i could accommodate the dead the lie between us i m a bowing eye i m a pilgrim s mouth i m a toy you broke speaking slow as it sentenced the end you d dreamt that i died my face on another s hide stretched like the string on your door feel my pulse and tap that beat which my blood marches at and claim every ounce of it yours two weeks on the lam now i m back at home again nowhere to run but the page often goes the sound of a hearts uncertain howl clanging the bars of its cage  i m a hotel shower i m a tempted saint i m a distant hound making sound as it dreams on the floor talented with words but am i more than pretty verse read by a voice in your head am i on your mind after all has bloomed and dried milling around like a scent now i hold the torch now the invitation s yours glowing on fire like a cake i ll be thirty one next month and i only want you by my side as i wake i am no wrong turn is there such a thing there are only turns that we take at one time you took me
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