Skin Flick

Silos and churches
seen through scratched windows
of the Bridgeport train
seem like gelatine
in the 100 degree heat,
there is the smell of tarmac,
stubs of ice cream
on the sidewalk,
pretty blonde babies
hunching to their mothers.
From the hilltops
trees ripple like pondweed,
somewhere in the scrub
a black vulture
kicks at a grocery bag.
There are red blotches
in the air, humming over
the bare outlines
of shops, warehouses, homes,
charcoal drawings
in a gorge of dry tinder,
red blotches morphing
over everything, like sweets.

The train pushes
into the dripping
New England valley
like a brassy tongue.