morning poem, august 27, 2015


Fog everywhere

And the sound of  a leaving train

The long, minor chord of the trainhorn

And the slow acceleration of wheel over track

The beginning of that rhythm

Clickety-click, clickety-clack.


I am lost

And without visible bearings

And so I turn toward this last audible cue

Desperate, but unworried

This sound, the assurance of home

And yet the promise of someplace foreign and faraway

Where language is music.

Copyright 2015

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