the train's pulled up and he's leaving
this place, still alluring,
has lost some shimmer-
the silhouette bed of a swimming pool at dusk
this place
where she still brushes her hair
glossy and marbled and maddening
but only at the back
perfect-
here only he saw his reflection
against sheets of hair and swimming pools
the rivet in her box of tools
the back of everybody's mind
then this place brewed and bubbled-
troubled, hushed whispers
the rasp of voices
of hidden choices
they drove him from the comfort of his shadows
from under the radar, where he flew-
where he flew was too close to the sweltering prize
he could claim it and die a fool;
he could flee and die a martyr;
the princess or the tiger behind the door.
but may's already conceded the fight for december
and bruised, he boards the train for spring.
