|You go from age-to-age station:
nails & feathers: burnt wing-tailings.
Chinese groceries at corners
save the situation.
Signing out & in. Not enough to make a living:
looking over Burnside a wide-angle like an angel.
From the bus stop
with its municipal
maps, unreadable pastels of the city
like drawers in a magical box.
Like pop-up cards:
box cars rust-orange to ocean-green ancient iron locks.
Making you forget the top of the news:
African child thrown away found in garbage can
where a dog gnawed the face off him.
Unbearable headlines begin to ignite like a Preservation Brass Band
as though you could burn the deed:
Check out. Kick the bucket? The only alternative to reading heinous crimes is blindsighting.
Consider that split-second
when tailings slough off, feathers, nails, walls peeling of paint.
You ride the bus above city's rim. Fairfield
the thing itself a Body-Smile
like that morning you bought new green shoes
At the first station of dream, you danced in them
slipping ski-pole in one hand
size of the box car in the second dream
its burnt-orange, lime green
made it part of a dream train:
tonnage in this incarnation morphed into feathers
into the Sweet Hereafter the Great Beyond.