Monday, November 23, 2015

7482. WHEN I HEAR THE TRAIN AT NIGHT

WHEN I HEAR THE 
TRAIN AT NIGHT
I am sable, I am gold, I sometimes don't know
what to think: there are curious phases of being.
Finding things lost again, before returned, and lost
once more. My hard has a cadence; is that the beat
I should be dancing to? In the black liquid of night,
the best sound can do is carry -  the devilish meander
of everything else is cut straight by the sound of the 
train. It seems always determined and sure of itself.
-
In the books of horticulture the ladies carry, there 
is a page about midnight-blooming roses. I can 
not understand a reason for that : all that passing
splendor, lost again, in a darkness of time?

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