there are sheep in the sky, i see them passing
the moon
like a razorblade to an eyeball on the movie
screen
and their legs reach down past houses and
cutting soft soil, piercing their past.
and the fires are still burning but the concrete
never cracks,
i've got a house on the glacier. i'm up to every
trick.
every night i hear the limestone rocks rolling
past my horse's hoofs.
i've got a hunger, a hunger for the bomb proof.
fold me into something else, press my edges
down with nails,
i am outstretched, widespread on the plains
and my hut is made of hay held together by
toothpicks.
i am waiting every night for the man with the
matchstick.
everyone gets a pair of wings to cross the big
truth is, it's just as impossible as riding on
snowflakes
but thanks for the possibility of flying out of this
but i prefer the hay and the matchstick man
because they shine so bright.
And i dig caves in every mountain in search of
your soul
and then, when i've found you
my fingers all stiff and cold
i'm gonna kiss you on the forehead and do all i
to bury you deeper this time to look for you all
over again.

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