I got your tape

I listened to the songs

Like blue and white china

We dug up in the garden

It's New Years Day

And I sewed back my buttons

I lost and found down the street

I drew a copy of the willow pattern

Take the torch, the tapes

And cut the bow

Pattern of blue flames

That worn-out mirror sound

The cicadas fill the air

All around the summer house

They've been writing their songs

For seventeen years underground

And as we walk from St. Michaels Cafe

We saw our future selves as birds

Turn and swoop back for memories sake

With a coin for the jukebox

And our voices go walking

Underseas and lumps of rust

Clay pipes and oyster shells

Bladed cables and curled-up grubs

I tried to speak to you, the days

I rolled my closed eyes back into my head

Like diving for bricks

In warm nutty water

Now I

I did not write these chords

I stole them from my brother

But I changed the words

This song is for him

And for tuning the guitar with pliers

For sandy lane

And Mr. Neil's parrot

And as we step into the trees

Time is flattened to a [?]

Cracking twigs and unraveling cassettes

To find our way out again