So the world settles in another night –
the mechanics of breathing, the give and take of light,
the crickets, the dog and you
settle into the rhythm and keep such perfect time.
My grandma slipped inside while I was singing
in some pub around the corner form her house –
I’ve got a photo of her hand tucked in mine,
but the bones that could hold had already lost their fight,
and now she’s fine
And I wonder if we’ll ever set the clocks right,
if we’ll have quarters for the meters or turn off all the lights.
We’ve been seizing the engines, never leaving breadcrumbs behind.
My ma says, Jesus, girl, you’re busy – are you sure it’s alright?
and I say, It’s fine
Ma, I’m fine
I help you clear the shelves of stories you couldn’t buy,
dried goods beside match boxes, shortcomings all in a line.
We’ll load ‘em in the truck, and we’ll toss ‘em down the gorge.
Memories with sharp edges won’t be carpeting this floor,
because we’re fine