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

It's a still-life watercolor
 Of a now-late afternoon
 As the sun shines through the curtain 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 book markers
 That measure what we've lost
 Like a poem poorly written
 We are verses out of rhythm
 Out of rhyme
 In syncopated time
 And 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 has 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