capture no.2

Don’t hide
behind the language,

& means it:

sculpt your words
into the grumble

of trains
that rail in


beside a silentrunning
river, gray

like black

on a wet page

& verses punc-

with the mourning

as she slows
on the outskirts

of where yesterday
meets tomorrow.

That crossroads
is all there is.


The grumble of a distant train shakes
me from dreams,
metallic smell
of her crusted veins lingering
in the moist air like a coming threat
of thunder. Fumbling
for the bathroom
light i
find myself
staring at a mirror
turned back to sand,
a shoreline of grainy morning
shadows where
the loneliest word is written

and erased by creeping tides,
traced and non-existed
like the back-and-forth
of a crosshead whose engine
to be off down the tracks,

my breath like her whistle
steaming for what lies
around the next stretch
of coast.


my eyes in the fugged train window
are empty and not like my own,
their surface etched with blood and regret.
my hands shake out of tune
with the movement of the cars,
my limbs disjointed and only loosely
sewn together. there is a yellowing
bruise on my chest and a hollow
where my pulse should be.
i have been filled, voided, then filled again,
and i am still thirsty.

surely i am sickening for something.