You lie bent up in embryo sleep below the painting of the blue fisherman without a pillow. The checkered cover kicked and tangled on the floor the old house creaking now a car going by the wind a fire engine up the hill. I've disentangled myself from you moved silently, groping in the dark for cigarettes, and now three cigarettes later still elated still afraid I sit across the room watching you - the light from the street lamp coming through the shutters hysterical patterns flash on the wall sometimes when a car goes by otherwise there is no change. Not in the way you lie curled up. Not in the sounds that never come from you. Not in the discontent I feel. You've filled completely this first November day with Sausalito and sign language canoe and coffee ice cream and your wide eyes. And now unable to sleep because the day is finally going home because your sleep has locked me out I watch you and wonder at you. I know your face by touch when it's dark I know the profile of your sleeping face the sound of you sleeping. Sometimes I think you were all sound kicking free of covers and adjusting shutters moving about in the bathroom taking twenty minutes of our precious time. I know the hills and gullys of your body the curves the turns. I have total recall of you and Stanyan Street because I know it will be important later. It's quiet now. Only the clock, Moving toward rejection tomorrow Breaks the stillness.
There are golden apples to be picked And green hills to climb And meadows to run when you're young.
There are roaring rivers to be crossed And bridges to build And wild oats to sow as you grow.
But later on the other side of time The apples no longer taste sweet. Bridges fall down Meadows turn brown As life falls apart In a little room on Stanyan Street.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
