There’s a clink-clank between the tracks of an old set,
sat, tucked back, grass-grown and forgotten,
by a man humming a child’s song
and the shape of a spindly, twisted dogwood tree.
It’s the candid breeze of nighttime,
a swirled whisper of dewdrops,
woven in with the pink and white bracts
of the treetop nearby, that puts him here now,
tossing rust-worn nuts where the trains ran once.
He’s all things, the worst things, and what he was is no more.
Now, crumpled, nothing, and gone, feigned wonder and light
on a backdrop of black, an eddy in the gloom billowing up and out
The train tracks creak under the metal braces upon them.
The man sighs sing-song sounds.
And the trains, what they once were, echo nothings in the nighttime.