I am sold to the open
I am holding a sail to the sky
I won’t trade for a closing
I don’t want to sell bread for mud pies
My mind is broke and I’m not a handyman
I’m not a wealthy man
but you can
with sticks and hands
come stitch a pulse where the threads have ran
You are not a fallen angel
you are not far away from my side and
breathing soft in the morning
blowing off all the scales of nighttime
And I can’t hold my own when the blood is there
when tiny eyes do stare
but you can
with joyful hands
come wrap a blanket around this man