In the coming railroad time of this country

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we take our places at separate desks

and write our respective

upkeeps and blasphemies in felt tip

and ballpoint, you

distracted by speedboats and wind in

the sails, stock

certificates, financial

alarms, me deafened

by the antediluvian din.

 

Saints hold desperate seminars

in the backyard, rebels

hack the door down in front,

orphans and urchins wail

through the windows.

 

In the old railroad

time of this country

braids, caribou, crystal

shadows of ghosts, tall

fathers thrice dead

flow through the hunching summers

to be subjects for

felt and filmmakers

shortages later when life

speaks again in

stone’s throw

crow flight

calluses.

 

At night our wrangling books

keep their peace

and gravities balance

in the glow of the scattering galaxies;

it’s no young chieftain’s giving,

no vernal light and lather as you

come to me, but early

metaphors of harvest as I stroke

the russet silk of your body in its

magnate’s robe and

the spokes of your speech turn the rim

of love over

and over

me down

warping tracks.

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