2 December 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 4
Ashes in Grand Central Terminal
Weather descends the stone steps—
sea of hats, hoods, shoulders
headed to the trains. Somehow I remain
sandy, coral continues
to cut, the ankle
closing month after month.
Oyster Bar underground. A stranger
needs an ashtray—
Drunk. Warm-looking skin.
His eyes cross