Internal West
Most days, you wake to
trains
announce arrival to
valleyed town,
bedded tracks cross and
end
in your ears. You hear the ease
in carrying weight you
cannot
comprehend. The body of
an airplane passes
in pieces, empty thorax
of jet, one lone wing
rides in dry wind on its side. But out here
in hollowed out prairie and dust
bowled side streets, trains call
out and sound
no different in Spain
or Poland. They sound of
thunderstorms,
mostly. But your heart, the locomotive
of loss moves against tracks, is thirsty
for song from some lost accordion, some love
you cannot stop leaving. To make tea
from absence, dandelions and ash.
