Civitella del Tronto
Larry Courtney
Trains and Church Bells
Kaila Wilson

A train rolls past on heavy wheels
and we wear our sadness like winter coats,
sleep in tangles of hands and hair
clinging to warmth and comfort
like children in Mom and Dad’s bed.
We get too close too fast
and wear our heartbreak like tattoos
pretending to understand real pain.
The church bells ring twelve times
as the homeless man on the corner
of Denial and Anger
tells us how he held a bleach-soaked rag to his open eyes
because he was sick of seeing
and we, misjudged geniuses, broken artists,
pretended to understand
and watched as cigarette ashes
fell behind our scratched sea-glass eyes
and filled our minds with fire.
In the distance we hear
trains and church bells
and it’s almost enough
to contemplate pouring bleach
into our ears.