I let go of a pit from a plum, unwashed fingers From the window of your truck Sixteen miles south of town We don't talk anymore My throat's an ashtray for your worries Ask me "a boy or a girl?" There are things that make you nervous Make you whisper at the restaurant And I look back and forth from the cop in the kitchen And the blood on your face, and the blood in the carpet I can smell rotting fish when the shadow overtakes us And the seagulls dive in hundreds and The vultures blacken out the sun