train comes, its wrack
the undisguisably pickled
dregs of hope de-
composing, dreaming acidly
in blue glass, mason. so
much for bloated beginnings,
point-of-departure daggered
summer afternoons in the market
where souls are at auction as
they were lifetimes ago
and charlatans lien awned
forevers under skies that
darken and gradually un-
remember. she presses
thin dress over pale thigh, fights
wind-made wrack in torn fabric,
holds her voice white-knuckled:
what price would you pay
to drain the vinegar,
slough history, begin again?