staring into the warm void this evening
i take my place within jarring volitions.

thought is volatile. a mason strikes
metal, revealing its malleability.

there is treason in thought of geography;
i will shatter the mooring and find myself

something the fluting wind is the muse
and echoing quiet, a ripple from stone-skip.

the next place to go is the beginning
stemming from a concatenation of ruins.

the thinning visage of masses crossing
the streets wary of collisions

is something realer than the wounded glaze
of asphalt and the mirage that goes along

tiptoeing like a danseuse through shards
of incandescent figures. fumes. sprawls.

untouched virgins. tacit stones. doves
perching on powerlines nestled like youth

suckling mothers. fathers facing telegraphs
and the sure machine of dearth.

stasis of peregrinations. peripatetic
crush of imminent homes.

this is to assuage its call, from nowhere
arrives the next train to Kamuning,

disappearing in a plethora of arms
sequined by sweat under the swelter of planets

unfurling a bent axis of tragedies. we are
fraternized to tracks, unyielding distances,

makeshift solaces serial, benign, tenured.
   belonging. unbelonging.

our destination: an impending sojourn,
   the verdigris taking form.