from p.4 on Mon., Oct. 5th

He sat alone,
the frog-finngered boy
on the train tracks.
Careful not to step on the
shards of beer bottles
while he danced
and sang
and dreamed
of being anywhere but there.
Alone.


-----


Rustling leaves fall to
harsh dirt.

The bottle falls shattering
into nothing, reminiscent of what
it once was.

Water ripples in ovals
encompassing time and our
place in it.

Leaves fall to harsh dirt.


-----


The smudged photographs
illuminate the pathways of her fingertips.
She only saw the good in them,

flipped through the bad ones and

found something that made her happy.