wolveR-ghazaleZ-ine

red wine pouring out the bottle, sitting backwards
on the train, campfire seen through the glass


i learned how to read the G’s: gauges—
properly, expertly, three quarters empty


a rock floated by the grieving side
of the island on a slab of ice


there are cries of intolerance!
when foreigners no speaka da guiltish


the blind man came to watch thoughts grow into wishes
and now memory is tended by volunteer in a glass house