In the morning's mirror the reflection goes into the realm of the land of the dead. In my lips, my jaw I see my father, metal, and ships upon water. I meet hope at the train station Whistle blows, tracks rattle, I run down someplace forty years, a wedding, rice. Dark sores black wings of expectations. You are connected like a generation in white blouses trying to be nice.
Hope is at the train station.
Fat palm trees, tan briefcase, vacation a million miles from every night dark sores. Black wings of expectation. The wedding rice turns to beans every night you slip out seek hope at the station tell him you're alone, on vacation that there is a sidereal light. Dark sores black wings of expectation open and meet hope at the train station. Copyright 1999 by Sapphire.