Some Trains

The trains that are pulled by the moon
toward their destinations
pass through towns where the windows are open
and the lamps in the streets
reflect on a skin of freshly fallen rain.
At the speed of a wish
they appear on the horizon
and are gone into darkness
so thick
it turns the rush of metal
into whispers.

The trains that have passed through the night
appear at daybreak
as miracles.
Farmers in the misty fields
raise their eyes from the earth
and put down their shovels to wave
each in his turn

as a mark of respect
for a deity
long believed to be extinct.

The trains that bring bad news
arrive late with no passengers
and cigarette smoke draped
between the racks
the ticket inspectors check
for luggage left behind
with their flashlights scanning each compartment
more in duty than in hope.

The trains that no one waits for
squeal to a halt in the terminal
where their stillness
seals every exit.

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