Sunday Song

Of all the rooms in all the towns you end up here
The space you’ve made won’t keep you sane or even clear
And the sun’s gone into hiding, but the light is still around
And the pages turn to mirrors, so you step out
She stops behind a bar
Sanded smooth by her own arm
And there’s talkers at the tables, weaving fictions in the sweaters
One is writing her a letter and this one drives you mad
Sitting in the pleasure at the bottom of a pool
In an empty room
Where no questions move by a perfect mood
To rest the arm on, to hang a face from
Watching for something good
How would you know, when you’re hiding out?
Get out of your head