by Tom Hamilton
Train tracks through the city like stitches on skin.
Like a scar or perhaps a line on a map.
A compass completed in a concrete corner.
A demure Sun too shy to kiss the Winter.
From the letter to my nearest Nefarious Heart;
Donít sit there and tell me that loved saved your life.
And how did you survive prior to this adoration?
You would have never gotten fixed without my fixation.
For the drastic static of your silken hand.
You could stay here and I could take care of you.
Never mind my despicable image in the river.
Only the Begonia grown on the clay banks.
Budget Press Home