It was a fine day out in Pleasant Hill as the sun began to set. The traffic wasn’t backed up till the graveyard out in Lafayette. I watched your lips move silently as you counted or you prayed for all the crosses piled like they’d been dropped there by a thousand planes. All those crosses in the light, do they have an address? Do you write care of the afterlife to say it’s a shame that we never met?
It was a fine day out in Pleasant Hill as the night began to fall. The traffic stalled and then stood still, as if someone had painted it on a wall. Can I talk to you honestly? Can I tell you I’m afraid? Can I ask what this world wants of me, and what if I don’t want to obey? And will you run away with me, or am I someone you’ll forget? Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to say it’s a shame that we never met? On this side I’m afraid we messed up again. On this side of the hill, should we prepare for the trees to be torched and the earth laid bare, for the mountains to rise up and puncture the sky, revealing what’s holding it up from behind, peeling away what was just a disguise, so that all we are left with is the truth and the light? Or do we say somehow it’ll be OK?
It’s a fine night out in Pleasant Hill amid the taillights’ glare. We haven’t spoken, but we will. The cars aren’t going anywhere.