Love, here are my handfuls of trust. (Echo.)
Here is my life, do with it what you must. (Echo.)
Is there something I'm trying so hard not to say
That these lines run aground in a tight-trussed echo?
I don't get to sleep because who would I be on waking?
Words come slapping back, a hot-gust echo.
I don't get a name because names mean something.
Old vowels hunt me down in a knife-thrust echo.
I shimmy on mountaintop nailbeds
Two-stepping high above the unjust echo.
Run, love, run. I am strapped to your back.
Who can outpace the wanderlust echo?
You call, I answer. I call, you don't.
I am tied to the bitter rock with the stardust echo.