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"but moonbeams being gold are something i can't behold"
on most days, i wake when you wake and watch you stretch with your hands above your head. you forget to shower and end up smelling like clay and smoke. it makes my back curl. makes me sweat.
our feet scrape in bed. we make lazy love before you finally leave me to drawl barefoot around the farmhouse, barefoot to the phone where you dial peter and laugh with him.
i'm sad because i know we can't stay here forever. the real world will come back to us and it causes me to moan. where grooming the horse and feeding the goats rules my day, offices and school and wages stare back.
you laugh and wrap me. "i never wanted a conventional job either. what about laying asphalt?"
but i still keep up my moods. where i wish i could make my home in the laughing tilt of your voice, you show me black-and-whites of your bearded brothers, the fan polls you're winning.
i'm happy. and i'm selfish. it's not until you invite me to headley grange that i shed my skin and dress for the grass. just for two days, but we sit in the field by the mobile studio and smoke. john comes rolling through, his drums relocated again. a childish prank.
you laugh at the redness of his face, frown when you take me up the stairs and show me how the heat doesn't rise. it's dark and damp, only jimmy can really stand it. you say it's because he's cold-blooded.
outside again you put heavy headphones on me and wait for my smile. some sweet ditty about a woman. i grin. i'd like to think it's me.
at last it all folds together. i'm alone just with the animals. i shun the world away and listen to those demo tapes you smuggled for me, to have your voice in my pocket, above my heart. dark coffee and the bathtub's porcelain. petals caught in my shirt folds. today's a day of pruning flowers.
