to Life, in May, in general
if “evil is an illusion of material sense”, it makes none; tonight,
i want to run over the train tracks near what’s-his-name’s old house,
just to feel the asphalt and the metal on my shoe, & to breathe the familiar
uncertainty: that frequent possibility of a train coming out of nowhere
save the slate sky, the pivoting moon.
perhaps all of us die too soon.
rather, perhaps we lose our sense of life like an unecessary habit
or a sweater, or an error, and, like a great train in a desert
we board onto something new. i’d like to keep this sight in view,
and run by the paper factory at eleven to remember how it smells –
the stillness — and watch it gently go about its business, trembling
with each impending speeding locomotive in the night.