The train stops and I’m in the woods: waiting for the wolfs to come. As the thought comes—passes with the sudden movement: away from the tops of trees, onto the hues of city lights.
A tree rolls by. Then a puddle, a person, an infinity of telephone poles and street lamps and colors, gray in every shade. Frost, fog and my cheek, numb on the window.
Parades come—coughs and whoops: slide into chairs, escaping out narrow doors. I stare at the colored people out on winter ribbon nouns—walking into shops, leaving under weights of clocks.
A baby scream, an old man dies—I close my eyes. A lover sings, a beggar collects—I close my eyes. The wind roars, the shadows I adore, the man next to me snores and my mental chores keep me busy when I’ll alone.
A grrr and brrr: the trains heart skips a beat, runs over busy streets and I hope for a crash. A fire, a spark or a dart—open your eyes.
A blister ticks my brow, so I open to stare: a mother sunk dread, in a mattress springs—out of life. Her children tick and talk and pull her downward eyelash hairs. They kick and lick: metallic keyboard sticks.
And I give it time: a halo shine, a polished smile a last. She hums a far away tune, sang personally for the moon for a light to her chest. A prayer, a sigh and her stop arrives—I close my eyes—I hum a tune.
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