The Left Side

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 first page of the Holy Book
Is hungry for her kiss

But she'll go home on
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 myths
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