Look far past the trees, my lover, myself,
And pray not to the Loam that dreams lightly,
Throw your hands to the Clay and scream sonnets of wealth,
Or just whisper sweet things in my ear.
For today she arrived, with her handfulls of Sand,
And her feet making Dust in the sky,
She looks East for a change, and describes to the Silt,
Good reasons for saying goodbye.
Did you sing to her, son, with you heart under Stone,
Did you beg for her lips, did you plead for her breasts?
Or did you lie under Loam, where you heart never beats,
And just pray she walks nearer to thee?
Was it West she like best, with the Mud past her chest,
Did she let go of the rope that she threw you?
Or did East call her back, soft and naked and cold,
With a picture of you in her hand?
Does the place where it hurts lie South of you now,
Does your sweat stain the Sand, do you feel for her now?
Did her skin turn to Glass? Was it soft to the touch?
Did she ever ask you for much?
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