Hour four:
A clicking clock ticks in the corner of a tall, narrow room.
A flickering candle lights up this tall, narrow room.
A mirror hangs on the north wall,
a mirror hangs on the south wall.
They keep each other's secrets, just like old friends.
Judas in the cupboard and Mary in the sink.
It's less than you think, but it's good enough to bring me back home.
Hour five:
Last night I dreamt of a beautiful house on a lake.
A rowboat was tethered down to a small wooden dock.
And the sunlight on the waves,
it looked just like a mirror,
or an overexposed photograph of old friends.
Daughters, like the day, will dance forever in our hearts.
Sons will fall apart and the space they leave behind, we call home.
You can't do what you want but what you want can do you
can't do what you want but what you want can do you can't
do what you want but what you want can do you can't,
no you can't do that.
We tried to live the waking life, but it bored us back to sleep.
Well, rigor my mortis! The tortoise is coming back home.
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