She slips out of bed In the fold of the night And the temperature drops With the cry of a fox It's the exit of a thief It's the falling of a leaf The dust is disturbed And her shadow is stirred
She looks back at the lover But he dreams of another The violence of his breath Betrays his gentleness And their minds have never met It's always been just sex : The finest of chains The slightest of threads
She navigates the stairs In the absence of the light A ghost that's self-possessed A soul not laid to rest And the painting in the hall Well, it seems to say it all : Still life, abstract Worthless, glass cracked
And here, in the fold of the night, she cries Cos the trains have all left and the ships have passed by And the seasons, too many, have blurred into one They seem to have stopped before they've begun