Somewhere in some kin roots with fifths I'll find the hollows there and follow Where the fit do not go A subtle wind always blows me back Well water black Spigot spitting nothing But some frustrated air I'd put the hollows against tomorrow's Many sicks and sorrows Or a sinking ship with cargo And men on deck Well water black Did-did-did Did both my grandfather's beg like this? Mad with little fists Under thick mustaches? Lighting the only tablecloth With the last book of matches? The blues of a proud, poor boy Caught on something manic and well to do It's your choice: Bird flocks stuck In a smokestack panic Or in little shoes you quit When they start kids pitching With your two palsy palms And all ten digits itching Now on the west coast Dressed most like a little league coach I'm low key, old keys But no boys to teach On no dusty diamond No breadcrumbs where I went Old muscle, slow hustle Oh god must me silent and far away For us to hear but nothing this way I'd like to think I'd take dictation From something big and evasive That I've yet to see the face of Bracing. But when I'm awake I'm like a little twig Breaking under heavy winds weight Or a moth hole in a sweater I know I could do it better (I know I could do it better I know I could do it better...)