X indicates existing damage

in the starving hours of the fake autumn light,
in the city,
the faces melt under the flat screens,
the chinese-made tongs of the
eastern european whores,
the hidden longings of the inner late night bus

every heart is a departure
in the alleyways of this town
where the electric honey blood of the street lamps
vanishes and offers an abyss of
barbwire reflections and dogs barking

so you drive the old blind toyota
and pray for a huge miracle,
a white horse in the black bolshoi  theatre,
a time machine,
a chandler-like spark moment in the cotton fog
a phone call

a word

waking up is not an easy thing when you have your heart rolling
in some other chest
no matter how much you pretend to walk it down
the trembling echoes of those days
come back from the dead
and haunt you like a burning arrow on the throat

the girl in the post office
smiles and talks
all dark hair and lips
and red nails

and i carry my load down to the train station
whistling if-not-for-you
and picking all the dust I can