in the muted evening
light an unseen
trumpet calls to all
the midwestern trains,
lumbering and
lamenting
across rusted fields.
when i was still
a pre-teen, i
rode a train from
Chicago to
Upstate New York,
waking into the green
night and a Cleveland
train station.
the belly long ago spilled
over the belt,
and the rust has grown
so bold
as to overtake
even the surrounding fields.
now, now
in the muted evening
light, so far from the always
out of style cities,
i am cold and
think i may want
a sandwich.
in the muted evening
light, the clouds
are coming back down.
they are taking
the green from
tree-soaked mountains.
they are filling us all
with their ceaseless,
shifting,
form.
zakschafer.com 