I write to you
To tell you where I live now
It is a small town
In the west
There are three corners that encompass it all
The asylum, the pub, and the catholic church
Went into the church for the first time like a spy
The circuit board of the town
What makes it all work on Sundays
The holy water burns
And I choke on the sacrament
It is dry and bitter like the cracks in our memories
I write to you
I don't mean to raise you from your sleep with my pen
But I've many questions again
I know your father shot himself and you were not told
You sought the city for a man to make the bed that we have now
And I'm here to tell you
That the world is epic and wrong
And we are called many things
And at the whims of what we're called
I write to you
The sky is lavender in Los Angeles
And it is darkening in County Clare
These pillars at the opposite sides of the earth
And we belong there
Ours were shot in the synagogue
Like we have been before
We are told to look at the moon
It's what we do
The hills are not on fire tonight
But the sky is
After the lavender ends
From behind the curtain
Stop at the way home from the bar
To listen to the wind
Because it sounds like the waves
In California