The Grid
October 2003 – Washington, D.C.

You say it’s fine; just a tempest in the night.
I’m the reason you cannot confide, am I not?
A telepath, a kind word across a telegraph.
I’d collect them, coming fast, too fast.  

I might see you every day
I might see you not at all
But it’s not quite quiet yet.
It’s not quite quiet
Yet.

A roiling sky, the better if we’re to hide.  
It’s the season for holding tight and closing up.
I lay by your side, but the tempest is in your eyes
And you’re harder to hold than the storm right outside.

Sleep on, sleep on.

The storm knocks the limbs down to the ground
And the grid fails and every light goes out
And we light these candles, the best to see you with
And hold them here in shelter indefinite.  

The power lines come down, and all we’ll know is dark.
But would we notice through the darkness of our hearts?

And it’s not quite quiet yet
We’ve still a few days left
It’s not quite quiet yet
Here.