Hands you the keys.
A soul should wilt but you won’t.
You’ll drive till the end of time
and when you’re done
you’ll put it back here.
Hands you the keys.
A soul should wilt but you won’t.
You’ll drive till the end of time
and when you’re done
you’ll put it back here.

That stone-faced soul
was out when mother and baby
and baby went by,
and so was I
in time for the smile,
that little bit left for me.

Sometimes prayers you have to wrestle them loose
for they bear the beloved
and you don’t want to bear
the beloved away

I die for death has comforted me.
She has spread her blanket and lain sad beside me,
and looked wide-eyed, and waited.
And so I left those troubles
like a gray bitter snowstorm,
spinning but then
digging and gaining traction,
passing slowly through the drifts and pelting
(headlights full of the past),
driving knowing if I drove far enough
there’d be an end to it,
the white line again,
daylight
and a first inkling of why

Light can be rich like butter –
and whiskey, too, like toffee.
When it is you’ll see, everything you see
is everything warm and smooth.