Parking Lot - Grouper

Can’t stop my sire beckoning

The desert is asleep

Kiss the sky against the rocks

A rush of speaking, am I speeding?

The shapes had moved across it

He took me far and fell into our home

Was it bliss?

Gentle fingers closing my eyes

You disappearing in recline

The night’s berth is wide

Hands on the top of these tangled locks

Inward, it rushes out

Her hands on her painted blue skin

A world of pain

They will hear us cry

From the parking lot