Confessions of a Third Kind The birdcage has a doll In it and maybe that’s more appropriate It never cared for The wild black-eyed terror Staring out It's snowing into the tulips The mice have left the attic His silence still squats upstairs And yearns my presence The piano is asleep Screaming of bonfires We played your records again In the middle of the night I hear them groan Lost in Commute The sun crouched low. When you came at last And draped my side in shadow My train c