Different Trains

Look up.
There’s a city island in a couverture of clouds.
Look around.
I see ads of vodka, luxury condos and starving Africans.
Look in the mirror.
I’m not sorry I called you a bitch because that’s how you were behaving.
Look inwards.
Every dream is a heartache; yours is no different.
Look closer.
Let’s blow up our bodies and float together.

The Choir

Music,
a quarter millennia old.
How did such time pass?
With lights and evergreens
and ruby wine to
stuff our heads.
There’s a clock
between the needles
of my tree
gold and ticking,
with ribboned skyscrapers
that were fiction
when this music
was first sung.

To Those Who Take

Stories
are whispers
heard in darkness.
Standing
in a black room
with walls ground of bones,
I hear them murmur,
telling lies
of how they’ve come
to be locked inside.
They talk over one another,
always asking for more
than I can give.
Their voices turn
into echoes
upon echoes
that continue endlessly
amongst the bats and the dust.
I turn away
and cover my ears.