And what do you remember most?
The line of the sea, seceding the coast?
Fine capillaries, glowing with cars?
The comfort you drew from the light of the stars?

And how long did you climb that night,
with the ice in your lungs, on the rungs of the light?
Beyond recall, you severed all strings
to everyone, and everything.

Oh, silent, constant driver of mine:
wordlessly calling from the end of the line,
where, even though each hour I ever loved
must queue and dive,
still, you will not take my heart, alive.

In martial wind, and in clarion rain,
we minced into battle, wincing in pain;
not meant for walking, backs bound in twine:
not angel or devil,
but level, in time.

And I rose, to take my shape at last,
from the dreams that had dogged me, through every past,
when, to my soul, the body would say
You may do what you like,
as long as you stay.

Now the towns and forests, highways and plains,
fall back in circles like an emptying drain.
And I won't come round this way again,
where the lonely wind abides,
and you will not take my heart, alive.
You will not take my heart.