Tuesday, December 29, 2009


The railway curves around a busy station, none
pay attention to the cross’s flashing eyes.
Thicker than clouds erases the mountains behind,
pebbles stutter in fear, unknowing of the words best
to paint a locomotive that dies, every stride
a rotation of memories, a battle of cries. Green
pastures smeared by a ever-long hiss, bronzing
paths envy the windows of admiration. A past
that lives in the roundness of wheels, fierceness
of brakes. They climbed abroad to laugh, to nap,
run to the sun and wrap in each others arms.
Supple mother feeds her young, swallows
the presence of the man sitting across,
unconditional as always as the weather.
Smiles of her in the baby’s eyes, watery, weary.
When the cannons puff, weeds bow to warn
next station is the last.

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