she washes all the young blood from her hands in the sink

and she knows that the lights will be there for her

breaks down the body the dark subtle ink

and she scrolls on the parchments that hang in the air

she rides a horse over stones in the night

and she closes her eyes and lets go of the reigns

she knows the radios run through the night

and she knows that the lights leave the prettiest stains

she builds a shrine at the typing machine

and she goes up to write down her tales from the black

prays for a soft breeze and cool gentle rain

and she prays for the bodies that write slowly back

she knows the dunes where the steel cities grow

and she knows when they jail her they’ll grind down the key

she knows the lights lay the heaviest blows

and she knows that the sound must admit to the sea

she builds a birdhouse of plywood and gold

for to carry the old songs all up to the soul

turns on the tv and sits in the cold

and she dreams that sometimes she’s the prettiest one

she knows the thrill of the chase in her veins


and she knows that the sinking is a trick of the light

prays for the silence and cool gentle rain

and she prays that the radios run through the night