I pressed pursed lips against resistant words and prayed on you.
Then realised I had had myself all along,
And so I prayed on that instead,
And now I love you better.
You were rain
And I was holy ground
And everything in between was simple matter.
Now all is rain
And holy ground
And we are everything in between.
Here, all the lines of poets are drawing me completely together.
It is my own finger that forces this water out of me,
But you were the bucket beneath a leaking roof,
And the thing that empties it,
And the thing that made the house a home.
You see, before, my voice was a pulp of noise, and now I am able to cut and paste
You are the feeling
I tried to stifle
At the pit of my stomach
On the naked edge of reason
When all else fails me
And even my devices are not mine.
I wanted to love you where the sunset meets the water,
But instead you became a kind of sea,
And I the land between your ports,
Will never pine for freedom.