Riding the Train to Chicago

It is slow,
and I like
that it’s slow
as we move through
the deep river canyon
and the sleeper car
pulled at the end
of the train
is quiet and gently
rocks. Outside
the window the world
does not stand still
as we pass it—
the river carves
its way south
and brinded horses
walk alongside their gray wooden
fences. At the stations,
a great shuffling commences
as new people board
and others get off—
a colorful flurry of hugs
and signboards, luggage and waves.
And then river and tunnels
and red-stemmed willows
and snow dapples the ground
where the sun can’t go.
And all is forward and all
is traveling through.
We are all traveling through,
I think, as we pass an old red Jeep
that has long-since crashed
at the bottom of a hill. All things
we see, and some things that we don’t,
have been matter before—exchanging
molecules as we elapse—the water,
the waves, the train, the tracks, the station.
And love? And dreams? Are they recycled, too?
I wonder rush by you, through you.


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