Tracks

I breathe in a chest full of concrete corridors.
A stomach with tunnels links myth to mind.
And the muffled Cyrillic sighs of simple thugs
are on a plane to Istanbul.
Green light seeps through the bars.
Private subways rumbling,
the white guard hides in the snow,
sleigh bells pass at midnight like wolves
at our windows while I lay stretched out
across the Sahara, naked, too bare
to hide bombs.

Remember the tracks over the ice,
the sentences like camel trains
reaching into the night.
Remember the tracks across the Neiva,
rusted revolutions, a poet’s
imaginary war.