Jon Michael Anzalone
87-10 37th Avenue #211
Jackson Heights, NY 11372
917.568.5032
jon.anzalone@gmail.com

     Blackbird hung in the air. Twenty feet, ten seconds, something. I've seen a few.
     A boy came on the train and put clacking toys on the seat. "Doi Lei. Sapte Lei. Unspre Lei." He walked out and picked them back up five minutes later. Old woman sat next to me. No teeth. No Romanian, no Romani, no English, not Székely. Mutters and smiles at me. Police constable removed her with some force. Apologized to me with a glance and skewed nod. Haven't seen either since. Boy disembarked at Copşa Mică.
     There is a great haze in places. I sit still. I want to breathe it in, the air and clouds and blackbirds. Two hours, seven hours, ten hours. We hit bumps, rumble, and I can no longer draw my pen across the paper. All efforts are seismic readings. Tiny topographies.
     The sun set. The creases in the hills and the mountains became the sky.

     Saw my vision turn gravel into constellations. The brush of the rail line into a gust of wind. Flip the planes, press the ground up vertical. I breathe deeply, exhale, feel the haze fill me. Transition into one thing or the other.

     I could no longer remain awake. Fell asleep. Felt the hills rumble, ease, and give way. Felt every pebble.