
you're the accent on
my lips.
the way the tracks will run up north,
behind the setting sun at east,
the trees at west
with feet
still sinking in the mud.
latitude and longitude
sprawl across my face
-- like bad graffiti
at the pier.
like bad tattoos that hold me
close.
but you no longer mind the noise,
my scars that hide themselves
in fear.
no,
you embrace this mirrored face,
trading veins for
other things.
like train tracks running home.
like train tracks running home
to you.













32 old applause
