of all the nomads

I.

confessions of a traitor,
in the crunching darkness
stealing through the whistling eve
you do not know where the candle is, but
it is somewhere, it must be, it must.
Ballerinas and
white flags of surrender, waving
waving

II.

the train calls in the distance, a fragile howl, a tired owl
the creases in the clothes of the passengers, the
dingy greens and browns
soldiers of war, our wars, their wars of silence

III.

her chest is cracking

IV.

she is the scent of a forlorn candle
the smoke of a vanished flame, and
the shadows that crowd around it
why don’t you sing? she cries
you know the words, why don’t you sing? the leaves are turning violet, and
you will leave me

V.

fourteen blocks away, is a young man with
a beautiful face and
a bag made out of
bits of fabric, on the moonlit road
alone
the mud is staining his shoes, it is
the art of unsolicited scars