The hold I have's not one I want to lose

though it's caught in the flick of the clock through this blood

which knows it can't gulp down tides, can't tear out time,

needs a rest from the world I have wrinkled

in fingers, questions, musics. I try to teach my breath a new north, new east,

but the man in our town is still out by the graves, and he waits

for the horse or car or woman who will bring me to his dirt.

If you see them come, warn them I plan

to sing my way out.