8.Height Of Land
I can't decide how I should say,
'I meant all the right things. They just came out the wrong
way.'
To miss your vintage smile, I wear this weathered frown
and not much has changed since you were last in town.
There are still no new buildings where the old ones aren't,
and no one much has really gone that far.
While I'm waiting for you to save me
I'm listing all my convictions that I haven't followed through.
Somehow desire and affection are still too stubborn to
move in the same direction.
The same bad jokes make the same people laugh,
like： 'If I never leave then I'll never have to come back.'
As I signal on to our gravel road,
I'm tired of the dirt, the dust, the ice and snow.
I fear my content like I fear my loneliness.
These parts and labor are too fragile to persist.
All of our conversations trickle down the line
and they gain more details all the time.
I'm writing this from past the mills
in the St. Cyr hills
while I contemplate the smoke that always floats
in the same direction.
Can we move in the same direction？
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