the words weren't mine

it’s one of those nights when the sky gives up
a deadbeat blueblack matte and the old moon
picks out the few guardrails in fool’s silver

the sea’s been allotted to here for now
counterpart and antidote to the lack
as I can’t help measuring the next fret
about how my turn to be heard comes round

wouldn’t it make a better non-excess
of sense if all this conversation wound
down with everyone happy to go home
unannouncing                 a warm calm of low sound

instead again the hours head through routines

to be fair that’s only their opinion
like it is what it is not gonna lie