Her mouth flickered, sharp as razors
across the glass window
clouds rolled in in victory.
Snowy rooftops filtered past and
chimneys coughed a stormy blast.
Simple folk dwell within
golden shadows hide their sin.
The panic in the city lights
sweep her eyes at the fringe of night.
Red ribbons run through her pupils,
it’s alright – the moisture on her cheek
doesn’t mean she’s weak.
She feels dizzy in the moving cabin.
The conductor and she are alone,
staring out at the city’s bones.
Sack of bones
bruised and round
emerged from its black hole.
like braille under my skin
secretly snow white
hidden under pink sheets.
streaked by waves
deep, red, rising
my sack of bones
fallen into your arms.
The road is steep ,
lined with tiny bones.
All glittery and cold.
If you look in your rearview mirror before the ascent,
the last ice shavings are welded
to the tallest pine tree.
Go slow, up the road.
The tiny bones are sleeping, but alive.
Whisper a lullaby with rubber tires.
Do not wake the glittery bones.
The road guides survivors who wait.
The road takes the blame.