Someone is calling psychics on the phone at 3 am
The future runs through the telephone wires
Sitting in a rain cloud on the fire escape
Waiting for the building to burn
Steelhead and blackmouth packed up in the fishing nets
Emptied in the sluice then airborne in the news
The salt gets in your skin and preserves a feeling
Grey on grey on grey on grey on grey
The sky breaks open
Your shirt is soaking through
Something is choking you
The writers and the singers and the dancers and the dealers
Carry the same needles, feathers and thread
Queen Anne was a friend of mine and she’ll always be
For coffee shops for flannel shirts
For realtors for English ivy
Why do you want these lies?
Why do you keep holding strong to these ties?