Timothy Gordon

Wild Goose Poetry Review, No 34, Spring 2018


Even before I wake I hear the Santa Fe-Pacific,
its line of steel containers and trolling boxcars,
track-rattling wrought-iron clatter and plaintive horn bursts
across bucolic Midwest, through Santa Rosa, then off,
the last of ash, box-elder, blue trillium, down 54, nothing
but nothing, sheer desert, whistling over jet-black trestles,
slowing only for one Las Cruces crossing-grade before El Paso,
borderland, wind its voice in the dark, slapping my window,
at clapboard-box shelters on American Ave., Juárez tarpaper shacks.
a vagrant wind for all others, like lieder, lines of words,
naked and alone, as we would always wish them,
with no other place to go but home.

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