Metamorphosis

I dream in my city’s underground,
the stretched stream of light
between my stop and the last.
A set of bones,
fresh like changing leaves
and a cloak of holy teeth,
like in the jaw of a hound’s.
Watch my days,
craning envy
satisfaction of a cuffed pant,
daydream delicacy of empty coffee cups
and stained sleeves.
Warmth lost to the ticking days
the shifting waves of a busy week.
I was watching faceless frames
in rows of seats,
the subway knew me too well.
I am a metamorphosis of girl,
smell sober like cold concrete and wishing wells.
I’ve been born back into home
and winter’s almost come.

—By Veronica DiMeo ♦