The last time that we talked
the leaves had just started to change
and we passed the porcelain
cups of coffee over eggs.
And the first time that I met you,
we ran our expectations to the ground
and we wore them to the smallest
bit of thievery that we could.
So wash me in the water
where you washed your dirty daughter
and I’ll be white as the winter
and the birds that stay here.
I drank myself childish
for two days while you got dry.
In the vineyards, covered in dust,
they called St. Urban to keep me at bay
and parched by the red earth
they judged the weather by the day
and for August I cried out:
“Oh Lord, Oh Lord, Oh Lord, why me?”
So wash me in the water
where you washed your dirty daughter
and I’ll be white as the winter
and the birds that stay here.

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