Richard Buckner On Traveling
Up above you darling (past the line, between the land),
I'll call you from Vancouver
just staring @ your picture till it's all that I can
stand. This dream's a lil narrow, so
I'm sticking to my guns while the wake-up calls keep
coming (though sometimes, dearie,
lord the thought of another one).
Are you shaking? Are you sleeping? Yet, another weepy lil
rager drowned down to the ring.
It's hard a moon to swallow. You're drunk or you're dead
under this swollen,
swampy sky; when the thought of one more broken night is
more than some'll ever shed.
