God is love and love is real, but the dead are dancing with the dead and though all that's charming
disappears all things lovely only hurt my head as I gather stones from fields like pearls of water on my
fingers' ends and wrap them up in boxes, safe from windows, from things that break, as the night-time
shined like day it saw my sorry face, hair a mess but it liked me best that way (Besides, how else could I
confess? When I looked down like if to pray, well I was looking down her dress...) <b>Good God, please! Catch
for us the foxes in the vineyard - the little foxes. </b>Turn you ear, musician, to silence because they only come
out when it's quiet, their tails brushing over your eyelids - Wake up sleeper, and rise from the dead! Or
the fur that they shed will cover your bed in a delicate orange-ish red, ah, I don't need this!
I have my loves. I have my doubts. I don't need this.



by raft