Unweaving these lost thoughts from tangles of roots
Voracious vines that seek the day
Although these bitter seeds grow only bitter fruit
I'll try arranging them for you
These dead letters at my door
Are filled with phrases torn in two
Those tangled things that I pressed between the pages
Like late winter blooms
Entwined with the deadfall, I'm given to choose
To find contentment in the snare
To soak my bones in light
To drink the pouring rain
Rather than open up for you
These dead letters at my door
Are filled with phrases torn in two
Those tangled things that I pressed between the pages
Like late winter blooms