Maybe this was the real work, the
elbow-bent nighttime writing,
mapping the river that pierces the wood
Maybe this was the real work, the
elbow-bent nighttime writing,
mapping the river that pierces the wood
I dreamt of the ways it could and did
go wrong, the departure to the party
and my key, what was her name
and who were these girls –
yes to bright longing and no –
how to get out and where
oh where was my key?