Let the seaweed stroke the sand
And breathe a truly holy land
Matt Perez on those drums
|
|
Do My Hands Look Like Fish?
Do my hands look like fish
Silver like a nickel
On the moonlit sill
Dusty as the swallow follows
Swiftly on your thoughts’
Electric current flows
Color to the flowers’
Seeds you dropped
Like broken shells the waves
Hadn’t yet reformed
From crimes they hadn’t yet committed
To the cross but to the crossroads
Where we find ourselves here standing
Standing in the waves
Don’t our feet look just like seagulls?
Rising high to read
The high and windy future
Out where the sun must surely
The sun must surely, surely be coming
Small from down below
Spiraling to heaven
And we fall in love like stones
Grab you with my talons
To the earth belong my fish hands
From the earth comes the nickel
And the moon can pull the shells
Through inter-tidal crossroads
Policed by sailing seagulls
Let the seaweed stroke the sand
And breathe a truly holy land
x |
|
 |
|