I will starve to feed my brush,
Wet its bristles rather than my lips -
I will never die if my work lives.
I wait for the train to come,
My easel's legs braced between iron beams.
I paint a black dot that will expand, engulf me.
Two people kiss,
Leaning into each other,
Arching over the tracks.
I scream, Don't you see what is coming?
They smile at me, and wave.
They say, Everyone is standing on the tracks
- Some are just looking the wrong way.