Wooden slats on a peeling floor
Open wide by the screen-mesh door
Silver pine in a jagged row
Where the heavy summer grasses grow
Rocking back on the pine edge line
Where the copper light and needles twine
Under poles where the black wires run
Counting sparks in the dying sun
Rusted nails in the cedar beam
Cutting through like a jagged dream
Telephone poles in a steady beat
Burning gold in the humid heat
Rocking back on the pine edge line
Where the copper light and needles twine
Under poles where the black wires run
Counting sparks in the dying sun
Polaroids of a vacant street
Heavy air and the asphalt heat
Chrome bumpers in a blurry flash
White paint peeling like a salty rash
Rocking back on the pine edge line
Where the copper light and needles twine
Under poles where the black wires run
Counting sparks in the dying sun
Old oil stains on a gravel drive
Feeling something that is barely alive
Steel cables humming a low grey chord
Crossing lines that the wind ignored
Screeching brakes on a midnight bus
Turning iron into orange rust
One last frame of the forest wall
Watching every single pine tree fall
Rocking back on the pine edge line
Where the copper light and needles twine
Under poles where the black wires run
Counting sparks in the dying sun
The dying sun The dying sun
Just one more frame
And then we run
