The bottom of the ninth In cold clarity Slow as a migraine swells Running down your clock You give it another shot But you're too busy someone else Feels like running on feet of clay I'm closer to the ground every day The morning after The night before Careful caution between Visions of black and white The home I'm homesick for Blurred like motel TV Signs of weather Repent in December Try to detatch for a spell But the hours late There's something I'll never know Behind those deep and dusky wells