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A steady hand can hardly stand
to waiver from its course, so slightly.
I do believe in symmetry, but it’s hard to see
when we’re living so awkwardly.
Our love grew slow beneath the mellow waves
of a warming ocean.
And left behind the static lines of home
to design a new horizon.

If I’m impolite, it’s not a trend
but just a way to bend these new anxieties.
The privilege of compromise
has risen to the cause of possibility.
An iceberg slowly melting in the gulf-stream
sends a letter to its lover:
I’ll soon return a hurricane
and blow away your doubtful reservations.

Wayoway I’m a little bit slow
when the mind falls out,
theres nothing left but the echo.

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