Tim Buckley

Under a loop of stars in the vulgar cold

The dead airport lay

By the pebbles of the highway

Through the snail clouds

You soared to your lover

I hurried away my darling

With a howl in my throat.

Hiding inside the weeds

In the orange grove,

The black rooster crowed

Through the hollow of the midnight.

With my shot blood,

With stains on my fingers,

I run with the damned, my darling:

They have taught me to laugh