at your house the smell of our still living human bodies and oven gas   you pray to nothing out loud   two first names and an ampersand   embroidered proudly on a kitchen towel   you're a beautiful and violent word   with the skinny neck of a chinese bird   in a fading ancient painting   and if you're in heaven waiting   you made it there fighting   the tightest kite string   in a bad storm with lightning      and now these few presidents   frowning in my pocket   can persuade no god   to let me let you talk, oh   these few presidents   frowning in my pocket   can persuade no god   to let me let you off      even though i haven't seen you in years   yours is a funeral i'd fly to from anywhere      i thought i had a pebble in my sock   i pulled it off and shook out a wasp   it stumbled out lost, and without a pause   unstung as i was, still i stomped it   i thought, there is no paved street worthy   of your perfect scandanavian feet   while my crooked chinese fingers groped   the machinery of your throat      and now these few presidents   frowning in my pocket   can persuade no god   to let me let you talk, oh   these few presidents   drowning in my pocket   can persuade no god   to let me let you off      even though i haven't seen you in years   yours is a funeral i'd fly to from anywhere