before it was a metaphor First scrape fat from skin, turn to sun what never felt light, in vitriol bathe open wounds, sear to
From Paris to Madrid is a winding coil of train tracks and engines, the much machineried world etched into hillside and valley. Subway clatter
I Under the lindens, a boy. Beside the graveled walk, a girl. He watches her— this is as it has always been. She cracks
I am the king of the rust and the blanket-curtains heavy against cracked glass. I rule the wind, shuffling mail like cards, spilling out