tell me to keep a secret drawer
fill it with rocks and white and gray quills
but what kind of insurance do feathers offer?
i'm not looking to fly
you can see i'm already floating
do i need wings, still, and
will i find angels with them?
what about these rocks?
will they help me remember the ground,
the sand, the mud that came with each one?
i'm not looking forward to look back
memories are that
just that
and in your secret drawer i see
pencils and a book ready to be written full
but what kind of protection do empty pages hold?
everything is here,
already here within our days
don't you remember, and
don't you remember with your heart?
and why are those pencils short?
if you have spent them on love
letters, why have none come for me?
and why trick is a part of trickle
is still a wonder
i wonder
