| It's a still life water color | |
| Of a now late afternoon | |
| As the sun shines through the curtained lace | |
| And shadows wash the room | |
| And we sit and drink our coffee | |
| Couched in our indifference | |
| Like shells upon the shore | |
| You can hear the ocean roar | |
| In the dangling conversation | |
| And the superficial sighs | |
| The borders of our alliance | |
| And you read your Emily Dickinson | |
| And I my Robert Frost | |
| And we note our place with bookmarkers | |
| That measure what we've lost | |
| Like a poem poorly written | |
| We are verses out of rhythm | |
| Couplets out of rhyme | |
| In syncopated time | |
| And the dangled conversation | |
| And the superficial sighs | |
| Are the borders of our alliance | |
| Yes, we speak of things that matter | |
| With words that must be said | |
| "Can analysis be worthwhile?" | |
| "Is the theater really dead?" | |
| And how the room is softly faded | |
| And I only kiss your shadow | |
| I cannot feel your hand | |
| You're a stranger now unto me | |
| Lost in the dangling conversation | |
| And the superficial sighs | |
| In the borders of our alliance |
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