She the rusty swan
slinked around the walled city
always on the wrong side
of whatever side there was.

The portrait of a pin-up,
in shades of rose
a little starved, no longer

afraid of Patti Smith,
the Hindenburg disaster,
fast easy love, or some
comparable horrific accident.

I liked the way her face looked-
red-deemed feral-
How, as she moved to speak,
there was nothing but bonfires
wasted on air.

Crash and burn
behavior became her
own style. Out of an envy
I can’t articulate exactly-

I gave her
home, to make it up to her
a bath, a quietly staged sunset,
a piano.

I followed her
right into the storm drain
to save her with my antidotes
for deployment. My ropes of sand.
Slouching towards Bethlehem
and stamping disapproval.

How does this always happen to us?
These symptoms of eye,
these morbid fascinations?

You can’t see
a train wreck once it has burned.
View it here.
You can’t look away.

“At least I know I’m a sinner,”
she shouted back,
“You ain’t gotta chance.”

-Caroline in Richmond (search phrase “kitten” + “trainwreck”)


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