we moved through the perforations
those dislocated stations of the cross
banking our gains and our loss
kneeling in the snow outlined footprints
to get exact measurements of those shoes
we had to fill in, to be able to march on
but they melted and our gauges were gone

we live in the hearts of guesstimates
trying to approximate greatness
aiming to push at the limits
of torn paper bags they keep rotten fruit in
that tree of knowledge windfall is worth little now
if you are still crying over eden you need shooting
there have been many different baskets to carry fruit in

we are sketching out ideas of our own
to be harvested when our kids are fully grown
but we understand they may throw it all away
and at the end of the day who's to say that's not right?
every bird has a virgin flight; every icarus a fall
you try to guard against it but it's not your call
thank you for your interest he says but fuck you all