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

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s