Is there a place of singular desire?
The kind of want that takes on it’s own form and creates its own world
when nothing else matters save that which you clamor for.
Does a body break when it’s borders Annex another lost and hungry nation?
At the heart of which lay a train station
Where all the tracks reach out in every direction
An odd way to reach in.
Can that one body, once two,
know all the right ways it must move
To keep harmony and rhythm in some dusty groove
Of our body’s railway blues.
Foreign to you and you and you
But we all know what to do
When our limbs compel us to move.
So heaven must be a dance that happens all in an instant
And is over even quicker when what you want
Is what’s been given.