Off the Train

You used to walk this road,
the tracks beckoning
like a bad influence.
Now you throw your hat
to the ground,
hair wild, a Medusa.

Once you were the wheat growing
alongside these rails,
heat rising from iron
in a different season.

Now you step off the train,
lie down on the tracks.
Lie down on the tracks,
your body a third rail.
The hills shimmer in cold light,
quiet as a hall.

Wheels run over and past.
This is the part where you rest
beyond relief and burden,
the train hurtling on without a driver.

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4 thoughts on “Off the Train

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