The Grammar of Light

Lyrics

Even barely enough light to find a mouth, and bless both with a meaningless O, teaches, spells out. The way a curtain opened at night lets in neon, or moon, or a car's hasty glance, and paints for a moment someone you love, pierces. And so many mornings to learn; some when the day is wrung from damp, grey skies and rooms come on for breakfast in the town you are leaving early. The way a wasteground weeps glass tears at the end of a street. Some fluent, showing you how the trees in the square think in birds, telepathise. The way the waiter balances light in his hands, the coins in his pocket silver, and a young bell shines in its white tower ready to tell. Even a saucer of rain in a garden at evening speaks to the eye. Like the little fires from allotments, undressing in veils of mauve smoke as you walk home under the muted lamps, perplexed. The way the shy stars go stuttering on. And at midnight, a candle next to the wine slurs its soft wax, flatters. Shadows circle the table. The way all faces blur to dream of themselves held in the eyes. The flare of another match. The way everything dies.