in the hobo jungle at the foot of mt shasta, i carved in wood some kind of flower i had never seen. it was blooming, it was clear and bright. it was everything i had ever wanted to be. but in the looming shapes of the night i knew the only thing i knew how to do was leave.
so the ladder on the water tower takes my weight and bears it well, til i can see the lights from the southern cross motel. i cup my hands and i whistle loud i hear my friend reply from the ground but the hardest part is always climbing down.
for a time there, i was lost and free i was a westbound train, i kept my whistle screaming.