Whatever half-love you have left
Or trace the plumb line to your death
What is love, then, but to drag a dead deer by its horns
Just to drive on, neither to arrive or to escape
We were wilder in our boots
We no longer have our youth to sell
You were never the kind to call me yours
So carry on, carry all your desire to a flame
Black shadows, back-battles
You have held in your lungs too long
You were searching, I was purchasing
A flight to old luck town
No martyrs, no fire-starters
No loose wheels, no healer saints
No wise words, no birds embroidered
In our clothes, no rose parades