These Hazy Days

The Trains Are Passing

The trains are passing, emitting steam,

And the lullaby of the onrushing night

Enfolds my body, or so it seems.

The crickets are singing

And the grains of wheat cling

Carelessly to the sky

As if they are not afraid—they

Pretend with every strand of weakening gold

That they never snap in sudden winds;

And I notice the sky they grasp at darkens.

The stars part around the night's scalp,

Clearing a reflectionless waterway

From the white moon to myself—

One point beyond the earth kneeling ever down,

Touching with a tentative finger

The most fragile thing it sees

—me—

And for a moment, I am honored.

Then the trains bleat like the sheep in the hills

And I am grounded.

The grass is not soft underneath my feet.

The trees do not whisper poetry to me.

The crickets aren't singing, but washing their legs.

The grains still reach into the cold black air

But it's only wheat in the breeze

And nothing more.

Finally the trains stop and the night is quiet.

I walk to the tracks and lie on them, feeling

The thrill of possible pain

Thudding through me like it's music.

No trains come for the rest of the night,

But that's okay.

I lie on the brink in the clear country dark,

Bowing down to the many things inside me.