Atlantic
The Weather Station
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My God, I thought
My God, what a sunset
Blood-red floods the Atlantic
With a wine in my hand
Laid back in the grass of some stranger's field
While sheer waters reeled overhead
Thinking I should get all this dying off of my mind
I should really know better than to read the headlines
Does it matter if I see it?
No really, can I not just cover my eyes?
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In the half light, soft wind on my skin
Pink clouds massing on the cliffs
Thinking how can I touch this
How can I touch this softest petal
Softest stem, softest leaf
Bending, green, in my palm?
Thinking I should get all this dying off of my mind
I should really know better than to read the headlines
Does it matter if I see?
No really, can I not just cover my eyes?
Oh tell me, why can't I just cover my eyes?