She Walks

She's walking to him
past why those two people see into each other
past the anchored rock of the monocular eye
past the cactus burning through 7th avenue
along the freshly made donuts and wonderful new breads
along the European dimes and crystal margaritas
along the proven road her imagination thrills itself to
among the masturbation fantasies of a nation's elderly
among loose-stringed father figures still moaning saxophones
among civil war reenactments of Wynton Marsalis' affair with geodesic asses
stepping over crumpled paper 6th grade binders stuffed with adulthood
stepping around crayon fantasias of employment in the stars
stepping into long nights about systematic anaesthesia of throats
towards Arabian leather wallets full of hearts
towards bouquets of fire so everybody can see
towards the road leading to or away from home depending how old you are
away from brief seconds of knowing who you were among drag race tarantulas
away from sweet love grandfathers driving boats
away from 10,000 ancestors dictating what you'd be from a thousand centuries back
down the paths of steeds carrying swords capable of parting the lost continents of Europe
down the Oletangy River shying away from toilets
down the worn empires of envy subsiding back into the mud and aspiring to be worse and less
The rails are hot with speed
The iron is rumbling to her stomach
Ten thousand butterflies explode into a new generation of fine art
The wheels slice them into powder and dust
The wheels pound them into glitter
The wheels crush them into subatomic non-existence
The wheels are cruel
but the wheels must
keep moving.