the streets are rain-marked
unlike the barrennes I've coome from
Along one road
everyday another
partial end to true one
I remember waiting
though I never did
as the fractured memory of memories
replaces knowledge
the cut off point
when hollow stomachs
and dry eyes loosen themselves
wet with salt
I am in this moment
torn with the moment
five steps from the house
across the street
in Portage wind
orange sweater
watching the cross of streets
deciding I would leave soon
it isn't love but a discontent
sewing with my fingers raw
I can't seem to make anything
hold
hand defies my attempt to bring
lives together
places dictate my meaning
and a room of my own is not this one
train light on the
deserted mountain side
curled and mangled in
the backseat
every noise a shock
three hours sleep, heat
to burn so much skin
exposed
through clear windows
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