Chasing Trains Running North

I

Chasing the train home, heading north
I can see the prairie on the eastern edge
through the slated empty boxcars, & the graffiti.
I see the sun alight off the ground. even
the smallest particle of dust catches fire,
rivulets of all a-blaze, sparking its own reflection
to the sky. I pull over
to let the music filter into air, so I can
recover. watching all the faith
of mustard seeds wound themselves
against that dark dark knife.
I just want to be still
as that god sinks into his horizon bed.
And let the seeping of the moment
detoxify me and my forgetful head.
the cars race by me, their thrust
against gravity shakes my vessel
on its axle, oblivious to the beauty
in being alone. But
even that gets old after a while.

II

I look long enough so I can ask him
can you see it? Do you see what is
real and now? Anger is
only grief, only fear always, so
breathe. Know well and deeply
that there are places
I will not let you go to
get swallowed. And even when
you do, I'm still coming for you.
It's like my job. Like it's the cloud's
job to burst into gold rimmed luster
when the sun descends below their
perfect grasp. When the season of
the hour of the day changes. When
the air looses its opacity.
When feelings become viscous.

III

Only the future, the projection of
non-realities can conjure
such demons. And sitting in my car
scribbling into hand sewn leather,
I am amazed still
at how often I run from this;
this talent for just being. Here.
Now. No matter the depth
the dark, the light, or the promise:
being here
by the side of the road, waiting
for Apollo's rest, for the
fraying edge of another day
marked black in the calendar.
I won't mourn the passing of time; it's
all only temporary, even reactions
to our own tragedies, I won't pretend,
I won't give up or give in. But
I'm here. For the first time in my whole life
I don't want to be anywhere else.
I don't need to talk to fill up
the space, when the night
comes in all its guises and
permutations supernatural,
I am not afraid,
conquests and devils: you
have no idea what I'm capable of.
I leave when the sky looks blood
stained and pink, when the mountains
turn the color of indigo and all
those old old bruises.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

I skated through three poems to get to here, not stopping to 'review'. I was sure from the first line of the first poem, this is a poet like those others, the ones in the books, they go on and on always descending excellence of line; their sure hand has forgotten the struggles, so now they just put it down and down, their inside opening clear, a crystalline intelligence, a vulnerability grown strong.... I'm so pleased to meet you here...Ed