I breath a chest full of concrete corridors,
a stomach with tunnels links myth to mind,
muffled sighs, planes to Istanbul,
and green light seeps through the bars.
Private subways rumbling,
the white guard hides in the snow,
sleigh bells pass at midnight and wolves
at our windows. I lie, stretched out
across the Sahara, naked, too bare
or bored to hide bombs.
Remember the tracks across the Neiva
rusted revolutions, a poet's
imaginary war.

r berk