Five tracks neatly through the overgrowth.
It’s a crawl across the gravel, the singing stones.
And the chord pulls itself apart.
In pieces, in pieces, tense brightness of the white
petals in the weeds. I couldn’t name it.
Something major, seventh, graffiti vine,
moss-buried beam, the traffic on the line, the
Amtrak bells bend by.

I’m not right with God.
I can’t hear the pinions whistle,
or the hosts’ tap-step (one/two),
but the dancers rail still against the embankment,
thrown quietly to the station,
everyone a lover, everything arranged,
and listen. He did so well with the river,
the weed grown sideways out of keystone,
the certain spill to the sea,
the grammar to the flow.

I don’t know
I believe
in progressions
or train schedules. But, arriving
at the platform, where five tracks
meet like four feet on the floor,
two notes like a major chord,
we’re lonely cuz we won’t be
anymore.

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