I.
Having been away in the
manicured and polished
breadbasket of civilization gutter of stimulation
for the last quarter of her life,
she felt the need to
reclaim a part of herself
left behind in the moon and dead leaves.

II.
The train.
Who takes the train anymore?
Not I.

Outside the foggy train window blurred past
an army of dead trees raising their arms
to plead to some deaf god
who wouldn't get around to answering their message
until spring...


At night,
above the Avenue,
the blaze
of all the lights
turn the cirrus clouds
grayish-pink
like the tongue
of a 19 year old soldier
whose last blood-hot breath
escapes and rises
to condense
in the icy sky...