The Guest station where I live is warm-
its nurture cyclical; nature unethical
One may come and go but never stay
Caressing the lips with jagged teeth
It claims the heart, whatever may
Its Bliss is the Y of open arms
The smoky fingers of 7's following
In the shadow of the giving breath
That steals the tracks unfurling
Before the train of Certain Death
Is there a future here I'd like to know
But by the whims that close the doors
His half-glance back tells me "No"
And should that howling train arrive
His hands will be the first to push
And on the rail I'm told I'll stay alive
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