I crush these thorns

in my hands

to a black silt.

The moss beneath cemetery granite

surges and exhales.

Long arms of machinery

draping a cold distance.

A subway chain of daisies

flaming the linoleum night.

She picks up the arrows

tucks the movements of sundown

into a painted bag.

Treadmill mirages

where we cross ticket arms

touch circular doors

and ride the rag doll's elevator

to the mind of God.