There Are No Trains Here

J.M.S.

Leaving behind the monochromatic night - speeding south, west -away.
Rocket-fueled departures/arrivals/rendevous.
Whispered whiskey pauses,
Roses whirl in the wind here.
Nothing's static,nothing's teathered.
Kinetic volcanic emissions from million cathedral hills
and
masked luchadores drowning in mist.
And I left to think about
gardens,
and bridges,
and fire,
and beans.