Читать книгу Storm Toward Morning - Malachi Black - Страница 9

Traveling by Train

And faster past another frozen river,

the brambles, shrubs, and underbrush of dead

woods and the garbage that was left behind

by runaways and skunks: the plastic bags

and twine, shoes beside forgotten brands

of beer whose cans, so battered by the weather,

have all but disappeared—like the whiteness

of a smoke after it’s cleared. And you’ve been on

this train too long to know the time: you’re lost

between the meter and the desperate rhyme

of clacking tracks. Home is nothing here.

You’re gone and in the going; can’t come back.