Illinois Central

Resins resting deep in timber,/solemn ties, on strips of iron./Pigeons roost on trestles. Those scenes unfold the Southern Cross, /ruled by the Big Dipper where mourning doves take flight ghosted by their bond to silence./On down the line,/barbed wire wraps around an embankment, cutthroat speed of freight trains/sundered rails in heaps./Sm sun as always rises,/on a barber whose wife skipped town/he weeps on a load of groceries/grey hair reflected by his razor./He wipes the blades dry/valentines tumble from the trestle. He submits to every bell the railroad offers,/gives in to a dreamy nearness./Dissatisfaction assaults him in the aperture./He wife longs for what was tender; instead the clamor of a whistle/clenched in his teeth/a mouth nourished by potatoes./Always eager, always wary; a constant hum from his wife, in uniform,/at times past, his hands flew to her buttons

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