the broken hand,
gliding in detail and nearly
reaching a crack in our hearts.
stinging blood of our times,
never resting and always
on full alert on this highway.
mapped onto sky, a bursting stream of
zing and zoom, another lonely drone
holding still.

sing a few stanzas about trains, but
don’t let the anthems fool you. we
are not ready. and
look, the sky turns green;
we sleep restless, vessels driving inward,
peaceful dreams of fear,
fearful dreams of awe,
awesome dreams of
loneliness and the spark that
doesn’t yield or feel.

and in that feeling lost,
one will wonder,
crossing a stream,
where is the bridge
that used to stand,
here, watching over the world,
then, when we were held together by
sand and barbed wire, and
other simple things.



prompt that loosely inspired this