Yes, she looks for me good.
Let her look for me to tell me why she left me,
as I always knew she would.
I had thought she understood.
They have never understood,
and no reason that they should.
But if anybody could.
Finishing the hat,
how you have to finish the hat,
how you watch the rest of the world
from a window while you finish the hat.
Lapping out a sky,
what you feel like planning a sky,
what you feel when voices that come through
the window go until they distance and die,
until there's nothing but sky.
And how you're always turning back too late from the grass
or the stick or the dog or the light,
of the kind of woman willing to wait,
not the kind
that you want to find waiting to return you to the night.
Dizzy from the height,
coming from the hat,
studying the hat,
entering the world of the hat,
reaching
through the world of the hat like a window back to this one
from that,
studying her face,
stepping back to look at her face,
leaves a little space
in the way,
like a window,
but to see,
it's the only way to see.
And when the woman that
you want it goes,
you can say to yourself,
well,
I give what I give.
But the woman who won't wait for you knows that however you live,
there's a part of you
always standing by,
mapping out the sky.
Finishing a hat,
starting on a hat,
finishing a hat,
look, I made a hat.
Well, there never was a hat.