Saturday, March 19, 2011

A WRONG TURN

In my dream I'm always
in a massacred town, its name
erased from maps,
no road signs to it.
Only a wrong turn brings me here

where only the noon sun lives.
I'm alone, walking among the atrocities,
guillotines blood-scorched,
gods stabbed at their altars,
dry wells piled up with bones,
a curfew on ghosts.


Who were these people?
And who finished them to the last?
If dust had an alphabet, I would learn.

I thrust my hand
into the cobwebbed booth
of the town's ghost station,
the platform a snake-scaled rock,
rusted tracks waiting for a lost train,
my ticket a dead spider
hard as stone.

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