if the sound that gets made with each going away
were to lean on my knuckles to come
then all the spinning about making moths in my mouth
like a hymn from the heavens would hum
babies sweet on the floor ever calling for more
ever tasting their flight on their tongues
see them roll on the ground with their bellies so round
know they're bound to keep rolling along
and mrs. juliette low sings so pretty and slow
singing 'boy aint you going so wrong?
if your voice is to pray and your legs is to stay
then where you been going so long?'
yet still the light likes to fade at the end of each day
and it shines like a curtain of glass
onto some state of grace where her movements takes place
aint we always so going so fast
in the chill of some gray afternoon
in the still fading light of my room
i'll be aching to say
lover don't go away
and we will not go away
