Harold Gates slowed the snow-topped yellow taxi and edged it along the slushy curb to a stop where she stood, shivering in a tattered wool coat in a January blizzard on the steps of her unlit ... [+]
How could you know the sunlit afternoons
The glaring white of that low-hanging sky
The suffocating smell of heat wave fumes
The starchy crisp of linen swinging high
How could you know the rotting clementines
The stinging sounds that fold the heart in half
The trails of red carnations left behind
The smoky finishes on photographs
How could you know the hollowness inside
Of missing, what’s the wrong word, missing home
Or the complete and sometimes warlike pride
Eternal fire burning in your bones
Such wasted pain resembles from above
Your desperate and unrequited love
The glaring white of that low-hanging sky
The suffocating smell of heat wave fumes
The starchy crisp of linen swinging high
How could you know the rotting clementines
The stinging sounds that fold the heart in half
The trails of red carnations left behind
The smoky finishes on photographs
How could you know the hollowness inside
Of missing, what’s the wrong word, missing home
Or the complete and sometimes warlike pride
Eternal fire burning in your bones
Such wasted pain resembles from above
Your desperate and unrequited love