A burning truck
The idle length of the road out of town
The sea too bright, the sun too hot
Vested men in the dark of doorways
More light than ever, but a bad light
A soul as dirty as a mechanic's rag
I will get up soon. I may got to town
A plain woman, a bucket of dull water
I may buy a yellow box. Or a pink box
In a hundred years time, what?
Lean under the wind, go faster
After the tree falls where do the sounds of leaves go?
Past railway stations, crossings, old women with bags
I wonder if anyone will ever look me up?
Or make a house from stars
Expecting bad weather, cold rising
He was a hill type, dark
A horseman wondering at a train
We walk into a forest to walk out, trees
There were four of when we found the shed
Endless fences and wide, wide fields
She wanted a pony, but not a father
I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay, wastin' time
Sometimes a woman sweeps; sometimes she polishes
A Fat, Dark Wood
When I was a child my father was golden
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