train fare might fair

The leaves cycle

As the air smells of snow

The track the track, theyre tricked alive

Past the rows of white pill boxes

Neatly stacked and pleasantly lifeless

One string of lights is all that they need

To make this gray racing bullet

Feel as if it is traveling

Through pulsing muscle and sinew

The leaves cycle

And fall and pile and sit

And sit

And sit

And taste of wet dirt if you were to taste one

But we are all too full to taste one more bite

Of air that smells of snow

And the days

To come