Empty pocket, take hold of the lamb's ear Between your thumb and finger, all piled and threadbare I'll lead you down from the hip towards the falls Azalea blushed, turned red so slow We couldn't remember if it was ever pink at all Canary's throat is pink and ribbed with sailor's songs Remembrances and cursing the black hole Poor son of a bitch, couldn't even fly for the mist Can't remember the ocean but felt the pitch and roll in her chest This path, it tightens off, I hear the ocean in it's depths Past the flow stone and the icicle fence Cocksure sailor, you're polished gypsum And warm milk shore leave, abandon And lashes heavy from the mist, I'll lead you down Canary's song caught in her throat Closed off sharp and crystalline Her songs still hang in the tracery Poor son of a bitch, couldn't even fly for the mist Color leached out so slow she couldn't remember If she was ever pink at all