The prison bus
passes this way

every now and then,
surfacing without

warning—a leviathan
of metal, grease, and glass

its dark windows secured
by squares of rusted wire

its diesel engine heart
spewing exhaust that

turns morning rain
the color of seawater.

The prison bus
does not stop
for stop signs;

red lights are nothing
but violent memories
strung in an overcast sky.

When the bus strikes
something in its path

the prisoners bounce
slightly in their seats,

lifted into
impartial air

liberated
momentarily

by the familiar
co-conspirators
of blood and laughter.

In his dreams,
the guard who
drives the prison bus
circumnavigates the globe,
plowing through clouds
of insects that shimmer
like fuel above the road.

sea, strange
ghost of
ghostly iron,

blue star of
sea-song,

love in your
song of ghosts,
in your ghostly
irons,

clouds darker
than the sea's
stark iron, their
ghosts the sweet
breathed mist,
their ghosts
the ghostly iron,

the sea, crashing
wild and iron-like,
the tide's ghost
also iron,

wind, wild and
high like a cindery
bird, caught in
the irons of the day,
metal star of the breezes.

light,
sense of shelter,
ghost of grey
smouldering,
little sky of
iron, heart-beat
like a ghost,
heart-beat singing
of love.