97

I see the plants on the road
of one of those houses on the beach
every day, from the bridge above it.

And I'm telling you now I'll never be there-
not that there's anything there for me,
it just looks so close.

Even if I were to prove me wrong,
I'd still be the same,
all my voices in tact, whispering in my ear.

So I'll sew myself some clothes,
then close my eyes and jump on trains
to someplace fit for a movie
but where no director would ever look.

I mean the roads that could have been an accident
where even the birds are blind
and I understand the dismal clouds,
and there's no one to know me.