Foxes Field

ink on my wrist
blurs in my mind
and your words
like small swords
stick in my mind
each battle to win
with a death of some kind
so i spin to the music
watching your eyes

i hear the grass growing under my feet
i hear the earth breathing a sigh of relief
i feel like the blue sky is waiting on me

your hand holds tight
the blade that you built 
in some earthquake or fire
and i swing 'cause i have to
(my brother taught me how to fight)
and the blade between my ribs
makes me feel more than alive
and if i die i should be
barefoot
on the growing clover
in the foxes field
beneath the white oak
in April.