A pretty one-eyed girl 
From the state of Maine 
Can't see the church: 
It's on the left side of her brain. 
But it's clothed in browning leaves 
And it wants to take her in, 
And there's a Parson's robe inside that wants to feel 
her skin. And the sleeves of warm, black cloth 
Are hungry for her wrists, 
And the pages of the Holy Book is hungry for her kiss. 
She'll go home all alone 
On the right hand of the interstate 
And the church upon the hill 
It will sit in browning leaves 
And it will wait for her, wait to be together. 
But she won't want it, ever.

It's like a dream I had: 
This girl I went to see 
And I can't sing her name, she might be listening to me
In a room of missing tiles we felt ourselves entwine
And she bit my tongue and shouted as I crawled into her 
mind. 
It was full of singing mouths and apples in the air, 
A soft, warm little room that was surrounded by her 
hair. 
And, alone, when we awoke, 
We stretched our legs and spoke 
To the people we were sleeping with in voices not our 
own, 
In the cool of our beds 
With the words just dissipating 
In the open air ahead, 
And this other world just waiting until we're dead.