Weakerthans - (past-due) lyric
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February always finds you folding local papers open to the
faces "passed away," to wonder what they're holding in those
hands we're never shown. The places formal photographs
refuse to mention. His tiny feet, that birthmark on her knee.
The tyranny of framing our attention with all the eyes their
eyes no longer see. And darkness comes too early, you won't
find the many things you owe these latest dead: a borrowed
book, that cheque you didn't sign. The tools to be believed
with, beloved. Give what you can: to keep, to comfort this
plain fear you can't extinguish or dismiss.
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