the number was numb

             we hung our tentpoles from a moss mountain song

             sleeping under the bandit bottles over mixed reunion

             where cascades of night dry ducks waddled by blodder

             their sound was distorted through clean turqouise water

             we looked up and saw the harps of white shore sands

             unchartered lands nimble from the eye of a needle clear

             music that reached us like experience in a nest of silk

             it blends within the easy stone bed of honey pouring milk

             stuck upon my finger phones all abrubtly soaring shut

             you came to me at the perfect chance of grape night

             deap and mysterious fabric static under gorgeous 

             the word that forms before the thought is caught

             beauty like a thief stole my heart for the display case

             still pumping out what was left of the time we shared

             who really cares to such matters of this brown eyed bear

             he just reaches out to charm what he can easily dare

             in the majestic wolf group he stood before death

             I watched close and counted his very last breath

             the number was numb and frozen before birth

             so we died as he would have liked in timely spring

             the stars that night placed our dream where it belongs

             so we hung our tentpoles from a moss mountain song