Blue 
The cars have shifted. 
Their old banks are 
luminous with pearls, 
foal of the open, 
hides glimmering in the ancient light. 
When you reach the algae 
on the final panel, don’t alter 
its trajectory.  Its cold  windows baste 
in these tropics, 
strangling under the forest kelp 
with the conductor’s blue hat still 
staring out of them. 
And though his eyes 
are eel-pits, the pink coral knows 
where we’re going.  It  claws 
from the wheels like a bouquet of spines: 
the green dust of the dead 
under its shrapnel fingernails. 
~Eric Raanan Fischman



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