Poem: Rust-Worn Nuts

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

and away.


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.

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