Erica Anzalone

VIOLENT PROGRESS

Never the midnight vibrates until a wine glass
breaks. The train twists
off track. Unslaked, mistaken claims
flash the cabin like a camera. The future maims
the now. A begins the alphabet's proletariat
is out of rage: the poets
have forgotten how to work. All aboard
the conductor swore we'd
lurch forward. Into what
hall of mirrors does this track split,
what toothless decadence yawns
over a suburban sprawl of manicured lawns?
We're checking in on the check out list.
Sign my alias' alias.

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