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?