Parading

Go forth under the open sky, and list

And my estranged hands

There’s a train a-comin’, there’s a train a-comin’

my one love

Already, I sense myself.

all swirling and churning, swabbing,

No matter what party is in power;

the bird forgets its tongue, like a time traveler

Sometimes I long to be the woodpile,

it seems you must let them come