here is a mess of dishevelry:
a frizzy woman on a crowded train
cross legged in the floor beholding
out the left windows:
ragged green mountains tattering thick
dark lint-puff clouds.
out the right: a jagged coast flirts
with a choppy ocean creating
a chorus of blues.
smoke rises from her tangles.
soon the train will pass on the winding
road, a tousled lank of a man mounting
a charger so classic it qualifies antique.
it rattles and rumbles beneath his
what precise magic, these
transient intangible connections.
every person between them is their own
trash bag of dreams. they know that they
will pass but can't won't know
when it happens.
might one catch in one's mouth
an atom of the other's breath?
a day before they stood
on the edge of a wild mountain
listening to the same wild music
ringing from thickets and vines
whispered rather than speaking
pockets full of jade shards as they breathed
inside a passing cloud,
inconsistent rain pattering the mad heat at bay.
she sits among tattered cardboard,
kicking babies, old women pissing
their pants. the speakers crackle, announcing
an upcoming station. the train passes
the motorbike. she singes. she flames.