shoes soaked through—
how many cigarette butts
lie amid the tracks?

the train north
your teeth lose their grip 

a skein breaks apart
coalesces back
to a semblance of order

the makings of a man
just four grams of sugar

measured in coffee spoons
the hours of the day
pass us by

in the bitterness 
of time
a grey wind

a cold stone glitters
weakly in the twilight

the flowers 
in her father's garden
long gone

from root to stem
traces of cesium-137

feeling nothing
for the sunrise 
you think of mushrooms

Clayton Beach
Michael O'Brien