A Thousand Strange Secrets

Traveling these iron railways, a warm dagger
leaks from beneath your fringed stations.

You were born a shining pair of eyes
the color of costly espresso one day, fog

on the highway the next, no roots running
through your thin rusted veins. You trace

the twisted rails, passing a collection
of colorful gypsies disappearing

in the other direction. You can’t help
bumping into violins on the way,

the discordant notes catching in your enormous
black throat. And it wouldn’t be so bad,

if some passing vagabond hadn’t 
let the moon in, Polaris at daybreak

dressed like a boiled egg, all the while
pretending Pleiades at moonrise. Hardly 

anyone will notice the purple
intersection. You 

will notice the silver
shimmer of stars falling

from your silkworm purse, the green
having all turned brown. Raw 

toothed and salivating the rails 
hum a cold steal-gray

deity. On your serpentine socks, it creates blue static
drawing unsuspecting moths eagerly to their deaths.