the railroad line
returns bridges
to steel,
chapels and tombstones
melting easy with
morning
safe beneath a windmill
the dodo eats
scrounged berries, quiet,
half expecting the lights
to cut
at any moment,
hoping
for glycerol to fall wet
from the sky
purely for utility, sweet,
sour plums,
liar, liar.
THE FILTERED PRESS 