The Dangling Conversation (Live at Lincoln Center, New York City, NY - January 1967)

The Dangling Conversation

It's a still life water color

Of a now late afternoon

As the sun shines through the curtained lace

And shadows wash the room

And we sit and drink our coffee

Couched in our indifference

Like shells upon the shore

You can hear the ocean roar

In the dangling conversation

And the superficial sighs

The borders of our lives

And you read your Emily Dickinson

And I my Robert Frost

And we note our place with bookmarkers

That measure what we've lost

Like a poem poorly written

We are verses out of rhythm

Couplets out of rhyme

In syncopated time

Lost in the dangling conversation

And the superficial sighs

Are the borders of our lives

Yes we speak of things that matter

With words that must be said

"Can analysis be worthwhile "

"Is the theater really dead "

And how the room is softly faded

And I only kiss your shadow

I cannot feel your hand

You're a stranger now unto me

Lost in the dangling conversation

And the superficial sighs

In the borders of our lives