Tuesday, April 1, 2008

the train

sun sinks o'er yonder
past lower manhattan
& the harbor.

the fat red orange orb
atop the lady's torch.

it is stuck atop
evry pointy building
in the financial district.

a fat rolling orange
that draws lines
& bleeds luscious
sweet juices of warmth
over all topography.

the train sinks
below below
where all is shadow
& the sun's juices
do not run.

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