After Jonathan Wonham's Malt Whiskey, Nostalgia for Fire
Fire on the inside, snapped adrift on the way to mourning, last train
rumble to ramble homeward she aloft within a framework of glass
and concrete metal beams encase. She is thinking of words and webs
fingers scaling over bruised surfaces as if time could repeal action,
disactivated. Kick, hover, reasoned list of forgery, forgets.
She plasters herself to the pane, suction cup of each fingertip
sticking her to now, and then now.