I wanted to stay in that little town with you
The one with all the chickens
And the movie house on fire

Late at night
Just before the fog came in
I’d sit on the roof of the bank
And stare up at your window
But it wasn’t your window
And you weren’t there
There would have to be
Many long nights
And a greater weight of days
Before that room behind the glass would hold us

I wrote to you about the red clay roofs
And the white plaster walls of Portugal
The Azores, the little yellow birds
The ceaseless sea
And the sleeping rivers, long gone
Panting for something
That the rivers themselves had forgotten

It’s that way
It’s always that way
It’s this desire that eats desire
And this burning wing
Always beating
The cold still air