Joanna Newsom Jackrabbits
I was tired of being drunk.
My face cracked like a joke.
So I swung through here
like a brace of jackrabbits,
with their necks all broke.
I stumbled at the door with my boot.
I knocked against the jamb.
I scrabbled at your chest, like a mute,
with my fists of ham,
trying to tell you
that I am telling, I can--
I can love you again;
love you again.
I'm squinting towards the East.
My faith makes me a dope.
But you can take my hand,
in the darkness, darlin, like a
length of rope.
I shaped up overnight, you know,
the day after she died,
when I saw my heart--
and I'll tell you, darlin, it was open wide,
what with telling you--
I am telling you I can--
I can love you again;
love you again.
It can have no bounds, you know.
It can have no end.
You can take my hand
in the darkness, darlin,
when you need a friend.
And it can change in shape, or form,
but never change in size.
The water, it runs deep, my darlin,
where it don't run wide.
The feather of a hawk was bound,
bound around my neck;
a poultice made of fig,
the eager little vultures pecked.
And a verse I read,
in jest, in Matthew,
spoke to me;
said There's a flame that moves
like a low-down pest
and says, You will be free
only, tell me that I can--
tell me that I can:
I can love you again;
love you again.
