This is not the hour for poetry but for lovemaking, or sleep.
I grow tired, beseeching. An eagle circles my bedroom,
eyes me lustily; her talons promise relief I’m not ready for.
A train is headed toward me. I put my ear to the rails and
feel the vibrations growing stronger. Where it will lead
I cannot say. No matter: I have nothing to buy a ticket with.
Shall we catch out and ride the rails? It’s cold in the box car.
We rattle past streams and dreamscapes, kissing; we are as
moss on stones that tumble indifferently. In another life this
is us: vagabonds, roustabouts, lovers…Who am I kidding?
You know why I write you from my bed, why I fall asleep
before being carried away to where we might rendezvous.
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