There was a time I would have cried
at this bright, low light
upon the farmhouse and its fields.
Today I don't know what time
it might be: precisely morning
or the exact pause in the evening
before the train fills empty track
and harrows embankment shrubs
in their shaded, tortured shapes.
This day I only stand and wonder
if there's work to be done after waking,
or if dinner's yet to be pulled
from the stove. I wonder what's left
to do in that shabby old house
with its narrow, black window
that faces dawn, or the sun that sets
unerringly, as constant freight rolls
always away from here and now
on hard rails down in the dark
foreground that had lain forgotten.
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