He said, "Black Jaye, when you strike a match
you so quickly shake it out
as if each time you find you're with,
you long to be without."
I can't spare love for the Promenade
where searchlights cut the sky.
I paint my dreams in a bed of wheat
growing golden four feet high.
"Black Jaye," he said, "so small and slight
with your scarves of indigo,
why do you sing in Quebecois
telling no one where you go?"
Down by the shore, down by the sea
I loose my hair and call
to bones of birds all crossed and cursed
to stop me if I fall.