Drowning Dream

                                  Well our dogs get along, but have you noticed how easy 

Evil dialogues of ours come out of wanting, 

For so long, an easy laughter, to feel guilty for some



Throw us in the oven where the angels fly, 

They still need to eat 

She's clean, she keeps a clean house, she can cook alright, 

But I no longer have meat 



In the middle of the field at the height of the eclipse, 

When all that we could see were the fiery whips 

Of that hot-headed god, hot-headed god and wild, 

Perpetually running from his wife and child 



I was born in the bottom of a boat, 

Of glass between the sea and me 

Upward from the floor they'd float, 

Bodies from the drowning dream 



What do you make in the furnace of your chest? 

The same as she makes in the locket of her breast. 

Here's where the buds in the coal-chocked tomb go hard, 

Clear and deadly and never ever bloom 



There were fifty-four people in the back of a truck, 

They were only sleeping 

When we come to pick them up, 

Safe within our keeping 



Sixty-eight bullets for my wife and I, 

They will never be satisfied 

Strength and purpose fringed by fire, 

Fire I was born in the bottom of a boat, 

Of glass between the sea and me 

Upward from the floor they'd float, 

Bodies from the drowning dream.