The vineyard growing out of decrepit stationmaster’s hovel flays the skin of buses and trains alike faces long and pe eli n g.
Atop a rubber sea I wade, sunlight ebbing awash on my strong shoulders; in pinks purples blue and green and grey.
The soot of early midafternoon chokes up, curling down my spine, hug from a friend in the skeleton of a regulation seat my mind lays to rest, soporific sweet.
Here lie the ruins of a plainsman’s kingdom, ghost fox says. Here lie the dust y wings of Corvus corax, grey in age. Here lie the loves and the dreams and the hearts of my ancestors wholly unholy in their pagan worship, but: the vineyard is a graveyard is a home wild to hold tame at heart and there lies my body, (anything I want it to be) grapes a-swinging just out of reach-
The fox gets his prize how sweet it tastes on my tongue.