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Tara Jane O'Neil
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Sunday Song
Of all the rooms in all the towns you end up here.
The space you've made won't keep you sane or even clear.
And the sun's gone into hiding, but the light is still around.
And the pages turn to mirrors, so you step out.
She stops behind a bar
Sanded smooth by her own arm.
And there's talkers at the tables, weaving fictions in the sweaters.
One is writing her a letter and this one drives you mad.
Sitting in the pleasure at the bottom of a pool.
In an empty room.
Where no questions move by a perfect mood.
To rest the arm on, to hang a face from.
Watching for something good.
How would you know, when you're hiding out?
Get out of your head.
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