Sad music feels right.
Tenor. One guitar.
Old enough
to know, to accept,
we lose what we love.
The night has cleared,
everything powered down,
including the moon —
stars like bullet holes in a tin roof,
the sky deep and silent,
Across the forked river of heaven,
a train of satellites passing — well,
we need all the help we can get
communicating, all of us
ineloquent misspoken creatures.
If only we knew our own minds
and had the words for it, reminded
how little we need to go on,
no backup singer, no harmony,
writing, rewriting, into day-break.
—Cover, "This Empty Northern Hemisphere," Gregory Alan Isakov.
