The first bite onto a grape

When reading poetry

I become infinitely
The many people
From far away

With

The frolic smell
Of detergent

The wrinkled

Sock
Hanging for the wind
The blend of old money

In a forgotten pocket-jacket

The toxins for noses

Like a bucket of grease
In a junkyard
The shine in a rail
The loose thread
in someone's hair

When a train stops

On a Sunday night

When we are simply

eclipses of light
In a packed carriage

I wonder what it is about
Relief in
Remaining seated
Its ambiguous
feeling of descent
While many are leaving in a hurry
the cold froth
Of wind is on our backs
The sadness goes away
but
The lingering
stuffy air.

The charm
of things so roughly blended
It is just as the 

Image of
pines wearing me out,

I have to go and
Air away
With
The feathers
to forest green.