Derailed on 18th and Cranberry

I’ve been wounded so the animal

tethered to me snarls and licks


my wounds.  All I see

is the reflection of everything that’s broken

made blurry by my failing


eyes too red to see anything


really.  I lined

the tracks with all

the change I possess


just to watch how meaningless dead

men’s faces are when facing the pounding of each

car, the last train for Night—that nasty


bitch.  If you stand close

enough to the speed of the train, the velocity of it

feels like flying.


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