| I keep wooden boxes like traps strung with wire | |
| In the light of old tires, piled on the fire | |
| Wearing their smoke like a flower in bloom | |
| Cut like the thread in a pipe fitter's room; | |
| I dig in the dirt and yank at the root | |
| Of the shadow's dark vein in a story gone mute, | |
| Till it sings with the blue of a hangman in time, | |
| And I give away what never was mine | |
| I've set a snare for the prey on my tongue | |
| The mean feral song still yet to be sung; | |
| The one with your name called out in the street | |
| That with or without me will always will repeat | |
| Like a coin in the mirrored jukebox machine | |
| Can set a world spinning like cheap gasoline; | |
| Sending up sparks in the air, how they shine, | |
| And I give away what never was mine | |
| I give away what never was mine | |
| The god of all truth, of darkness and sleep, | |
| Plays like the arc of a lamp and for keeps | |
| Dancing with fury, heat in both hands | |
| And welds me to you in the place where I stand: | |
| In love with your doubt, deaf to my own, | |
| Awake to the hole in the heart of my bone | |
| As I shake and sing, beating out time, | |
| And I give away what never was mine | |
| I give away what never was mine |
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