death without a

dying-process,

blows on your

spine.

the salty link

of it, coated by

an ocean's flesh.

the leather console

of my father's 80s

"funeral-car" ( grey station wagon),

imbibed a copious helping of:

Winston cigarettes.

it was unusually cold

out there--& the leather

console left a memorable

fragrance.

delicious really...

tracks aline

for the bandwidth

tonnage of connecting

cars.

a radio dial turned all

the way down.

oily newspapers left

on two-passenger seats.

while a train that's bound--

subsumed by stationariness,

is paralleled by another train.

sparking a philosophical debate

between incoming/outgoing motion.

I'm compelled to think of

the: Parthenon's columned

ruffles.

displaying birth, but forever

******.

night is  mostly

luminous,

if not all so.

occurring once.