You sleep on the bonnet of your car.
You dream that the walking’s too far.
It follows and you’re never alone.
In the sky there’s a dog with no bone.
Pass it on, make it quick,
there’s a cracked walking-stick
by the door and handle is spinning.
The thorns have a rose
that you or I never chose
and the sandman’s shoulder
is damp with their tears.
Light a cigarette, stumped,
let them come, send it up to
the ribbons of stars that
penetrate the wide open sky.