the moon pulled tight,
the devils pail horse,
the dead overskin of that swamp
the one by the twin tracks
shimmering like a penny
gripped clench-knuckled in the old woman's hand.
the old woman wants to whisper words to the conductor
we no good
we give shelter to the crusty-punk strange faced in st. lou
these things just happen
meanwhile i bring the cheap whiskey in a bottle
cuddle it like a babe
and write my poems now sideways,
the train churns
jerky as a rough masturbation
in the passenger aisles
i'm hypnotized by the one red light in the mess of whites as we race the white devil.
The overskin gets peeled back
as that liquid apperatus of those who pass on.
We laugh though the train was late,
cuddling our babes,
against crossed elbows,
the moon a wan laughing guiding devil
leading us to laughter.