In this life

you must strike a balance between being cold
and wanting the windows
open

Holiday

4:29am
my dad stops a Parisian garbage man
and tries to ask him
how much money he
makes

I catch

the eyes lighting up like little
windows winking to the
night, spanning the natural
divide, sharing some electric secret
with the wind


(luminous laughter shuffles the stars

presses the printer
buttons)

the woman

wounds

like one who was

wounded

dream #23

I find a fine boned China

boy beside a limestone lined convoy

of metal men with metal

hearts and metal cars with metal parts

Elise

what fine whispers

whip right through you

when you wait

for night

View from the Train (of a Cold Night)

boo blue houses
hoot like little owls as we
swoop through their
streets

breathing little foggy breaths and
bleating little lamb bleats while the
cold heaps up around
them

I would wave
if I was little

I would wave
and smile

but now
the black-clad passengers on my carriage
would flap their papers
and frown