Tin Foil

Late New Year's Eve, paper hat on your head,

It's hard to believe you'll ever be dead.

But that dream where you're falling you've had since you're five

Is a bird on your shoulder who whispers goodbye.

Evil Knievel shot up from dead grass.

I loved him better each time he crashed.

Liza Minnelli spent a month in her bed certain that

Skylab would fall on her head.

One night I dreamed that I dug my own grave and climbed

down inside to patiently wait.

Down in the ground I breathed the warm air and blackbirds

flew down to nest in my hair.

What is moving will be still.

What's been gathered will disperse.

What's been built up will collapse.

All your dreams fulfilled