Every night I see you climbing down the stillhouse stairs
As graceless as the hollow carcass of the Yankee Flyer
The seven hands of heaven scratching at the surface
Of the seven dirty rivers running by her
So I dipped my fingers in
Because your feet had touched the surface
But it tasted like the snow
Upon the town where I once lived and I said
Why can't I go there
Why can't I go there too?
I looked in the holy mirror and I was hunting you backwards
Down the artery whose blood runs with the Santa Fe Chief
There was blood in my boots too and it tasted just like you
And the union of our lives however brief
So I dipped my fingers in
Because I thought it was the currency
Of all the heroes far away from home and I said
I guess I don't care
I guess I don't care too