The Left Side

A pretty one-eyed girl

From the state of Maine

Can't see the church:

It's on the left side of her brain.

But it's clothed in browning leaves

And it wants to take her in,

And there's a Parson's robe inside that wants to feel

her skin. And the sleeves of warm, black cloth

Are hungry for her wrists,

And the pages of the Holy Book is hungry for her kiss.

She'll go home all alone

On the right hand of the interstate

And the church upon the hill

It will sit in browning leaves

And it will wait for her, wait to be together.

But she won't want it, ever.

It's like a dream I had:

This girl I went to see

And I can't sing her name, she might be listening to me

In a room of missing tiles we felt ourselves entwine

And she bit my tongue and shouted as I crawled into her

mind.

It was full of singing mouths and apples in the air,

A soft, warm little room that was surrounded by her

hair.

And, alone, when we awoke,

We stretched our legs and spoke

To the people we were sleeping with in voices not our

own,

In the cool of our beds

With the words just dissipating

In the open air ahead,

And this other world just waiting until we're dead.