Our Open Wound
is a slow freight train travelling through
the cold air of somewhere.
Word crossings flash red in small towns
with names like, Last Friday, The Unmown Lawn,
Vacation Before New Camera.
Dilapidated warehouses welcome cracked asphalt,
daisies marching to the door behind which are stored
arguments from 1999, love once under moon.
The slow whistle from slow freight
punctuates the occlusion of night between us,
when wine and restaurants won’t heal.
I will come with roses and wait at a station
somewhere on the pyroclastic plains trains inhabit –
tremble on the fault line where so much tumbles
from boxcars, is left unclaimed – a graveyard
in which the tombstones know too much.