he left his history
on the rails
blood spilled by well-turned fists
penknives and morning coughs
it married the rust
and greets each morning
with an even stare
he became a whisper
along the tops of meadow grass
a throwback to a time
most would throw back like used bathwater
to erase the spoor
you can map his travels
by bits of broken flask bottles
that bear strong names and burning water
and if you walk these tracks
you can hear his regrets
saddle the creak of the boards
and hear the open spaces answer
with silence
No comments:
Post a Comment