NIGHT TRAIN
The night train rumbles like a ghost
of iron over the bridge
over the river. Sage
Minnehaha, Hobo loves you most.
He’s lying by the muddy bank
trying to clear his head.
Everything he’s read
demands – who am I to thank?
The driftwood spines of shattered books
surge downstream, sink.
Think, Hobo, think –
a deadman’s glancing you posthumous looks.
Twin humps in winter refuse
under the lamp-green
of young leaves... Scene :
pillars try an almond (Moses, Jesus).
Through teenage foliage coheres
the rust-brown iron magnet
of one (hold tight!)
modal mine of shifting gears –
the rocky profile of a personal friend,
who’s center’s nowhere
& who’s hairline is (look there,
Horatio!) nowhere near the end.
A sibyl croons from the ancient world
whose prince is dancing
naked by the prow. Sing,
mickle dam... like slingshot hurled.
5.7.18
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