There's a huge chunk of it missing, a deep compression,
Their fingerprint imprinted into the creamy crop.
That's how it's always been hasn't it,
The one with the sweetest tooth carries the heaviest crime,
Always guilty of something, guilty of fun, guilty of secrecy,
Guilty of running off into a world brighter than rain,
Sparkling like kitchen knives in this spinning house.
This house, whiter than a lamb, silent, overflowing like an urn
With more and more ashes coming out all the time.
If the air had been less swarmy I would have seen it
For what it really was: The inevitable cork
On a marvelous ravine, running barefoot through
Its constantly streaming, like a strobe-light dream,
Kisses and holdings and glorious channels.
Leave it to me to put a cork in the stream.
After the worms have stopped squirming and the light's
Welcome once again, everything else runs back,
Runs back to where you were standing against a high wall.
The best part is we don't even have to ask if we'll make it over.
We don't have to ask about anything at all, especially whoever
It was that stuck their finger in the butter, because it was
Just once, and they know there's always something bigger,
And hasn't anyone told them to never lick your fingers?
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