Metal lips
heave
gasoline,

my mind weaves
tainted iron dreams,
filled with creeping flower-weeds
and visages of snowy peaks
guarding
warm, northern shores
where waves
slip slowly through
white sand.

A little blood
must still run
between steel links
and I hear feet
clash and stumble,
I fear people might hear.

I never thought to run
from the smog factories’
spiraling smoke,
but your flesh is soft and warm,
like nothing I've felt,
and I want to hide away
and heal
our fractured minds,
live in the air
above an ancient mountain range,
strange and great
and crumbling slow,
but there’s no place like that
left to go,
so forget it,
I suppose.