with my head against the window. Standing water
in every field, each flooded ditch
mirrors the winter sunset: cold orange clouds
and blue-green sky.
The trees are bare even of shadows.
I watch the darkening sky.
In the distance, a glimpse of river
tells me we’re nearing home.
Behind us, the funeral and shiva.
Ahead, bridges rise glittering like strands of gems
at the throat of the city; the train calls out
to its kin. Locomotive, iron angel,
sweet chariot, carry us safely home.
Books Available
Dervish Lions
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside
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