The rail
runs through
his fingers
Iron
leads down a hill
Glaze recesses
like he
is slipping
away


Letting him fall
on green grass
Maximum
colors split on his
insides,
glitter pavement. 
Wrapped around 
his spine
his chest
is mine
 

Artificial, 
plasma melt
flat 
like gauze 
of film
reality. Adumbrations,
deja-vu prophecy.    
Stay. 


Rolling, rolling
orange out
of a cobbled road
of beds. Your
grassy tracks, smack of   
a burning
suddenly ceasing
to waste me.