I talk all over the country, but I
think that romantic love is dying out
not just because of AIDS, it's really
been going on for a good while.
People are embarrassed by the whole--
I don't mean romantic love with a capital
R, of never neverland.
Let's play pretend and do all these kind of colorful things
they put in the movies.
I mean romantic love with a small r, the kind that counts.
It's called What is There to Say?
What do they say each new morning in heaven?
They would weary of one always singing
how green the green trees are in paradise.
Surely it would seem convention and affectation
to rejoice every time Helen went by since she
would have gone daily by.
What can I say then if each time your whiteness glimmers
and fashions in that dark?
If each time, your voice opens so near and that dark, new?
What can I say each morning after that you will believe?
But there is this stubborn provincial singing in me,
oh, each time.