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End Note

This song is by Enablers and appears on the album End Note (2004).

Drop back

Scan the smalls things rushing to a dark clutch of weather above the busy street
You once said that we are smarter in our dreams; you also said that words were important
And they were said. Or so it was said anyway

Thrush of traffic and wind: a natty legion of cirrus cloud streams over the inland peaks
A slow, brawny pace it converges in roiled plumes and drives steadily onward
Marching across the sky, the way newer skins converge and cover the body

So many words that maybe there might've been an inkling of truth hiding among them
I just had to feel it out in peels, waiting through air, much like a sculptor might sound the occurring depths and store of the rock

Molecules are in a frenzy up there. A rollicking mass of sightless matter
In violent contact. When a phone rings just below the touch, a person might cultivate
A small simulation of that

Thunder

And you laying in bed so many nights alone-- a date with a cigarette & a book, any book
It made the scenario complete, constantly forging your new skin

Meanwhile, no lightning. just the birds and trees hove to in the winds, graceless
Stricken things at the whip
And the quietly vigilant apartment houses poised together in dull weather-toughened homologue, bled clean of their grand eras like faces and hands, creaking
With the singular duty I imagine weary clippers once did in heavy seas

Wyoming
I watched its fleeting monochromes pass in the reflection of your aviator glasses
Plains and sky that slid like currents into the hollows of your cheeks, gathering miles
Of the kind of breathing that conquers speech
You stared straight ahead for hours, drugged and sullen

You looked like a cute idiot

It's tremendous what the wind can and will bring into clarity: views once frayed
And obdurate, now bound by the hidden blessings of change

And you are here again, fretful but playing it safe. You asked about me where once you had told me how I was. I said No once, a start for any number of pressing endings
And funny how that word remembered the way you squeezed yourself shrill, a death-grip
On the odd solace of a back of a chair. Your mother. My hand

A tuft of paper flits into traffic and settles after the deluge into a cozy pocket of gutter across the street-- there. The way a person might refer to another in place: there. Until the glimpse of a raincoat starting into the store cuts the show, and the rain comes

As my hand passed across your face, at once fostering and wiping away woe and worry and a deliberate need to fuck, I told you that if a person believes in time this is what he does. Words were said. Words were important. Or so it was dreamed anyway

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