atavistic mounds

they’re the lips of mouths

that have been open

too long

edges

frayed

bloody

mud trickles in

down the tire tracks

the English countryside could never be flat

layers of history elbow

the Earth’s crust

ghosts haunt

its nights

they collude

with the rain

the most ancient,

ravenous explorer

it and the child next to me

tortilla chips and

Scheele’s Green guacamole

we both consume

with our eyes

a shape

her’s triangular

mine rectangular

her’s crunchy

mine soft malleable

unreachable

over-achiever

is that why I always face the wrong way

on the train?

I watch what has

already been consumed

and rearrange the crumbs

if I try a new form,

will I achieve a new

perspective?

but once I get off

it’s back to

facing forward

KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE HANDRAIL

AND FACE THE DIRECTION OF TRAVEL

I feel the field in my legs, disintegrating