The papers spell fresh threats of doom
Squinting to read in the dark of the bedroom
I hear the breath of my child
Ain’t love the thing that’s beguiled us
For ages, and still
The pages of newsprint can fill
Me with what do you call that feeling
Like spiders are crawling into your head?
Wake up tangled in the bed
A dream, an explosion, the dead
Survivors in black and blue and red
Last night we three went outside
Looked at the harvest Moon, hollow
And high in the sky where the satellites beam
The faces of men to our neighbor’s TV screen
It’s more information than I need
Fold up the paper I'm done
Glide through the front hall
Open the door, see the Sun
On the hazelnut tree
That’s something I still believe
