You hold the reel in your hand.
You walk the salt of the land.
The desert wind tastes of lime.
You stop the ticking of time.
The veranda floor is a grid.
Where all the old secrets hid.
You squint through a lens at the sky.
While the red hawks circle on high.
Splicing the ghost of a scene.
Keeping the celluloid clean.
Cut out the part where you fail.
Paint all the scenery pale.
The motel sign has a crack.
You keep the movie on track.
The curtains are heavy and gold.
The story is tired and old.
Splicing the ghost of a scene.
Keeping the celluloid clean.
Cut out the part where you fail.
Paint all the scenery pale.
Burn the strip with a flame.
Forget every face and a name.
The projector hums like a bee.
You are the only one free.
You find a frame of a kiss.
A moment you dared to outmiss.
The light hits the wall in a blur.
The memories start to recur.
You wind the black ribbon tight.
Into the dying of light.
The Santa Fe air is a chill.
The desert is heavy and still.
Splicing the ghost of a scene.
Keeping the celluloid clean.
Cut out the part where you fail.
Paint all the scenery pale.
Silver frame, silver light.
Fade to the black of the night.
