From A Mountain In The Middle Of The Cabins.

They told me beauty was dangerous

But I searched for it, In a dusk café

Of a twilight City, where the space between night and day

Is the swirl of a coat.

The cardplayers and espresso sippers,

The lost music of my generation and the

Generation lost in music. The cold, cold

Glass against my shoulder,

warm Ceramic in my hands.

It’s raining outside, and sometimes

The door opens up and Rain comes in,

Bells chiming his entrance.

No one sees him but me—their faces and

Eyes are lost in each other.

Rain shakes my hand and

Sits beside me, and rests his damp head

On my shoulder.

“Are you beauty?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, “But not yours.”

The man behind the counter slides me

A drink, along with a bill that’s

Less than it should be. His skin and hair is ivory.

I ask Albino if he is Beauty.

“Yes,” he says. “But you wouldn’t guess it.”

Calculations and definition swim in a blind

Woman’s eyes. She is at the edge,

A knife between her heart and mind.

Her hands shake as she raises coffee to her mouth.

“I am Beauty,” she tells me. “You don’t have to ask.”

So I don’t ask.

I watch Albino with his

White hands in soapy water, I listen to Rain pounding

Out lost memory, and I speak to Blind of things she can’t see.