Suitcase

Last week’s rain
escorted June with pictures and flags
skeletons and teeth
and frowning angels
to the main train station
In my hand, Tehran  	packed in a suitcase full of martyrs 
and Paris	a prostitute fugitive in herself
In the suitcase, Artillery Square is so crowded
that freedom picks up her long legs
and strokes the cold hard breasts of Revolution Square
It is still night time

It is snowing
Summer on the tracks
and the sunshine travelling on the train
gets lost in winter

SUITCASE