Sunday.

Hmph. The phone rang, only twice.
An area code I don't know, and I
hoped, of course, that it was you.
And I answered, and noone was there.
I'm tired of not being able to call you.
I 'm tired of my slow motion studio.
I want to run away from you and everybody else.
As if that would cure my lonely ache.

Pedaling alone into the dumb sunset.

Let the flowering begin.

Today begins another round,
of blooming. I mean, I begin
to paint again.

Full Moon Kiss.

In a little room, in an old hotel,
where I had stayed, till I got well,
till winter's sun, had come and gone,
until my bones were strong enough,
to carry me home, I opened up a window,
and slipped into the dawn.

For many miles, and many more,
I walked until I reached the shore,
where penniless, where tired and sore,
I tied together branches,
threw myself into the ocean's roar.

I threw myself into the ocean's roar.

In a homemade boat, on the open sea,
with no northern star to guide me,
in blinding rain, and driving wind,
my only thought, that I might live,
the day.
Or make it to your front door,
anyway.

That I might,
find you again.

That you might,
invite me in.

Duro.

And I will miss,
your pretty face.
I'll play our old tapes,
on the radio.
I will hold you,
while you are away.
Just so.
I just needed you,
and I just needed you
to know.