Quiet and hooded, his eyes stared out, small hands
Make patterns on the window. Body shifting on wood
Dog outside the door, flickering memories as trains
Maneuver in the old men's eyes. Forever part of a sleep-
Ing world, waiting for him to come. Lost dreams of
Childhood forgotten like hope. These lives are grey
Stones made for cemeteries, this time the victim is
Desired, like misery. He stepped down from the train
Dust on road and clothes, across the way a boy was
Grinning, hard-on obvious in torn grey trousers
Inherited from an earlier victim of the white horse
Filing past the flowers and signs full of dreams
Light of night filtering where woof tiles slipped
Into that darkness. Each ritual makes demand, a hope-
Less coil of expensive death affirming our exeistence
The direction never changes, never falters. Along
Those derelict lines lines to journey's end. Small hands
Smear juice on flesh squeezing tight crinkling of
Skin against worn eyes. There is no need of light
Somewhere, in the secret cathedral, small movements
The whole area covered in sheets of snow, pitted by
Huts. He had no expectations, there was no reason
Breathing short as the text on the wall. Whenever the
Dog moved, the night trembled, shimmering like water
Moved by leaves in a forest. Marks of cold spray in
The dust, as in the future faded by choice. Our appetite
For miracles is not enough. Here, only animals
Remain, immaculate, seduced by pain. Ending fear into
Specters of welcome. Floor stained with patients. The
Moment of least action. He moved like a rat in rubble
Toward the sheets of snow, awake and empty, like an
Old house, the place where all dreams meet. "He was
Grinning before he jumped"
Make patterns on the window. Body shifting on wood
Dog outside the door, flickering memories as trains
Maneuver in the old men's eyes. Forever part of a sleep-
Ing world, waiting for him to come. Lost dreams of
Childhood forgotten like hope. These lives are grey
Stones made for cemeteries, this time the victim is
Desired, like misery. He stepped down from the train
Dust on road and clothes, across the way a boy was
Grinning, hard-on obvious in torn grey trousers
Inherited from an earlier victim of the white horse
Filing past the flowers and signs full of dreams
Light of night filtering where woof tiles slipped
Into that darkness. Each ritual makes demand, a hope-
Less coil of expensive death affirming our exeistence
The direction never changes, never falters. Along
Those derelict lines lines to journey's end. Small hands
Smear juice on flesh squeezing tight crinkling of
Skin against worn eyes. There is no need of light
Somewhere, in the secret cathedral, small movements
The whole area covered in sheets of snow, pitted by
Huts. He had no expectations, there was no reason
Breathing short as the text on the wall. Whenever the
Dog moved, the night trembled, shimmering like water
Moved by leaves in a forest. Marks of cold spray in
The dust, as in the future faded by choice. Our appetite
For miracles is not enough. Here, only animals
Remain, immaculate, seduced by pain. Ending fear into
Specters of welcome. Floor stained with patients. The
Moment of least action. He moved like a rat in rubble
Toward the sheets of snow, awake and empty, like an
Old house, the place where all dreams meet. "He was
Grinning before he jumped"
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