Saturday, January 22, 2011

Wolves by the road and a bike wheel spinning on a pawnshop wall
She’ll wring out her colored hair like a butterfly beaten in a summer rainfall

A ditch in the dark in the ear of the lamb who’s going to try to run away
Whoever got that brave?

Wolves in the middle of town and a chapel bell ringing through the windblown trees

Wolves at the end of the bed and a postcard hidden in her winter clothes
She’ll weep in the back of a truck to the traitors only trying to find her bullet hole
and then run down a canopy road to some mother and a baby with a cross to bear

The song of the shepherd’s dog
a little brown flea in the bottle of oil
for your wooly wild hair,
you’ll never get him out of there

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