Singing about hands means that I need 
to see yours right in front of me. 
It’s not too much or too clear. I’m only 
an animal making animal sounds, 
knocking all these new words together 
and holding my head in your lap. 
It’s not easy to pretend you’re dead 
for very long. I wake up morning 
after morning in the same door-light, 
the same mismatch between the setting 
I evolved to live in and my own wrecked 
backpedalling. Every time I felt like 
slipping away you brought me back, 
and every time I’m in the woods there’s 
a moment when I think I’m lost forever. 
I can’t see the snow but I know it will come. 
You might have saved my life if I hadn’t 
since forgotten everything about you. 
Knowledge is so lonely. Even sober 
I shook on the plane, staring down at 
the blood vessels over Virginia. 
All these things have lost me. I have 
a grand stellar motion, I have instincts. 
This morning I scratched my face 
while washing it. What kind of abandon, 
whatever firewalls distance me from you 
is enough of a fair warning. Believe me. 
You just have to go into the room to see it.