but I can watch wistfully as the clock ticks,
as my hair stands up on the back of my neck,
as the clouds gather in the west.
I could count on my fingers,
but they're tied up in other things,
or following laugh lines in your hands,
neither an invitation nor prediction.
There's no sense in trying to get beyond
the midnight flickering of mad men and magic,
of moving any further than the mountains,
and praying for an avalanche.