Another Radio Song

Sit back, no song is written,
it's nothing you thought of yourself.
It's just a ghost
that came unbidden
to this house.

This infection gets stronger every year.
This seed in the water of your tear.
There is no escaping it.

This seed in the water of your tear.
The way an unborn baby's ear
unfolds in your belly.

This infection gets stronger every year,
this direction of a tear going down your cheek.
And there is no escaping it.
There is no escaping the thing that is making it's home in your radio.

Bless this tiny alley
we have fallen from tall buildings
we have fallen through the air
into a garden sweetly smelling
of the softest sleeping flowers
now they sit under the sidewalk
now they're waiting for the shining
of some future sun to show us
all that is your beauty
oh, and all that brings you pleasure
I could sigh into your hide
and say I hope I'm here forever
but black sheep boy
with your lovers
with your list of favorite pillows
with your list of missing children
with the wall where you drew windows
overlooking hidden gardens
cut apart by jagged mountains
climbing up into the air
and crumbling down into a fountain
where the water waits forever
like a quiet distant treasure
when you rise up to recover
when you leave this tiny alley
when you meet me in the garden
with your horns all hung with cedar
every spirit brushing past me
brushing past them in the ether
scream all this is window dressing
all you are is flimsy curtains
watch you flame up with a word from us
and won't know that you're burning
burning
burning

No escaping the thing that is making its home on your radio
No escaping the thing that is making its home on your radio