Winter sunshine has no right to be so similar
From one coast to another
Winter sunshine should not have the same thin,
misty sort of
quality to it, in the here and the there
Almost as ridiculous as losing track of your limbs
Pedal, pedal, sticks and fingers
Timbre and rhythm and conversation
Where words have no part
Almost as ridiculous
As missing people you don’t even actually know
As the tricks the brain plays on the body
the body plays on the brain
Almost as ridiculous as the rustlings in the mornings
When you can’t really tell when the night ended
And the morning began
And precisely as ridiculous as the notion that the human voice
is really just another instrument
to be played like all the rest
What’s the point of trying to say things in words?
What’s the point?
Like coming home to count up all the things
that make the place you just walked into
the place that you call home.