Train

I was freed and reunited with my mother-- who,

like a stroke victim, did not grasp the immensity

of what i'd been through. No more chamomile

feelings, or else it was chamomile all the time.

No in between. No mother slipping away slowly.

I'd had my head out the window of a train

passing through a tunnel. Nearly decapitated.

I should never have had my own head

out the window, but I have this thing with wind

and locomotion. This app on my phone reminds

me to stick my head out the window every time

it's 11:11.

Every now and then I have to move. The pain

is a ball that rolls towards me, forever. Deer sit

in the periphery like unmoved chess pieces

not covered in dust, but slick as seals.

My ballerina self has light on her face which is

looking up to the moon. She is transparent, lace

in her lungs-- something fibrous: an illness which

looks like snowflakes covering the seen

of a wreck.

It is hurting to hear the dog cry--

his howl

echoes. (His heart is sick with something

like blue fingers

warm and bruised.)

The dog howls like he's never feared.

Ache. He howls like the bright,

blank page exists an hour later.

The dog is still

howling.

It sounds.

He's just realized he's lost something

precious:

a part

of himself

:

it's still hurting,

the dog howls.

what if you go find the dog,

he comes to you--

you feel the sadness in his head.

and his sadness then kisses you.

A more beautiful blue

In the morning I will try

to describe a color to you

you've never seen before.

It is like

a more beautiful blue.

By the way, I can look at any color

and be okay. I can hold orange

within my iris, take it with me

to a place it don't mean a thing,

anymore. Orange don't mean a thing.

At night the colors stay outside where

they're supposed to, mostly.

I sleep with the windows open.