Sometimes I get the feeling that this really never was my home A 1957 kind of heaven sent remote control A boring bird a bitter word a re-recurring picture show We watch together tracking weather barely tethered from below We hover high an open eye to always see just where we are The subdivisions subdividing and colliding bare their scars A washing dish a ripping stitch nothing is missing no one's far Wind up cloud wind up sky Sees the rain turn to snow Sees the rain turn to snow again There is no more to know here There is nothing more to know here Our wings are urgently diverging feeling set upon the sun Our welded skeletons are relatively ready to be gone The cities merge the lights converge the buzzing blurs into a single sigh See the satellite seceding Here in the headlights At a haunted height We roll our eyes back up into our heads