CONFESSION OF THE BOLIVIAN WHO SLEPT ON TRAIN STATION FLOORS
—after Magritte
When I climbed out of her mouth, bloody
with darkness, the record was still spinning,
the needle stuck on a troubadour’s croon,
“You are so, you are so.” Over the floor,
frozen as an arctic railyard, fell shadows
long as a hair left on her borrowed coat.
Who waited in bowlers for the vendor
to open shop and let news happen in ink
as the littered shadows of passengers
leapt and bent like fish fighting a river,
found the corners of windswept melee
as snakes bred in folds of the mountain?
I’m lying. I smoothed the divan, undressed her
knee by knee. A feather on the pillow,
echoes in the wall. A net holds fear.
We flee from love in the garb of mourners.
Words and images © Chris Bronsk
Chris Bronsk 
Thanks. The first photo is a place where some homeless camp in a park. I’m not sure why I felt the two shots worked together, but I gave the pairing a try. Thanks for the comment.
Great shots. I’m amazed how photographs can be taken to mean many things without captions. Where did that mess in the top photo happen? Or to be more precise, what happened?
I bet that was great. Magritte is an artist I find myself returning to in different ways and finding new surprises. Glad you liked the post.
Thank you! The positive feedback means a lot.
p.s. your poem really captures his spirit. :)
I just went to the Rene Magritte museum in Brussels last week! What a feast for the eyes.