i. Bus



We shall witness the bruising sky swallow the sun

                                                          (I do not mind wading through the night)

whilst awaiting your ferryman, He Who Drags His Anchor.

                                                          (Let me sink myself into the cushioning azure)

To rest amongst yawning souls, bones disrobed of face and frown

                                                          (I offer my ear like a shore offers a radiant warmth)

as they let the naked marrow breathe. We shall trade our spines, until you

                                                          (Let me align your vertebrae; stars in a constellation)

disembark. As this vessel rocks against wet charcoal peaks

                                                          (I will remove my ribs; gaze at my guts (please pry))

we huff the frozen air as the ferryman stretches the seconds after

                                                          (Let me hold the lantern Charon. I’ve no need to anchor)

each soul staggers into the mud, boots sodden, hair damp, skin frosted.

                                                          (I yearn for us to buffer & freeze & crash & reboot)

Yet before he reaches your coffin door, your jaw flickers a tender crescent, dousing

                                                          (Let this be oil, turning my skull black before ablaze)

my frame. You retrieve your skin before you can put ember to bone. Perhaps it is

                                                          (I bid farewell (let your anchor rest at my tomb!))

water which fills my raft. Until our next voyage, I will await your flame.






ii. Train




If one were to take the knife which first sliced the black sky bleeding dawn to carve out

a chunk of this — time’s stutter — they’d s t r e t c h t h e f a b r i c ready for the grand

loom of                                                                                                                    iron threads

stitching                                                                                                                  cities&towns.

This sheet                                                                                                                which cradles

you as sun                                                                                                               slumbers lays

atop a bed                                                                                                                shared by the

stationary. You                                                                                                        bathe your brain

in a huddle of                                                                                                         wall-white&seat-blue.

Glass pillows                                                                                                           to watch time&worry

lose shape;                                                                                                               perhaps they hold

no weight after all.                                                                                                Behind the shuttle’s

skin is zero-gravity —                                                                                           you mean nothing

and that is a relief                                                                                                 for your blinking

heart. To lounge in                          withinthisquietcabin                               the remnants of

anonymous souls                            icancursetherain                                       before disembarking

into the night’s                                 fromadryplace                                           choppy charcoal

cacophony of                                   withoutfearof                                             speech&rain, is

a reminder that                               theflamesbrought                                     you ought to tip the

Ferryman — for                               bycruellighting                                         he does not rush

these loading screens for he does not rush these loading screens for he does not rush these

loading screens for he does not rush these loading screens for he does not rush these loading