The language of a lone whistle breaks
into dark, as the train puffs like a worm on fire
coursing through town, swirling and forcing
its sound into corners like a mad
overflowing river.
Dogs take no notice. Shadows remain
under bridges. Small fires burn, warming
hands of the empty and lost.
The earth rumbles, pulling at earth stones
in their tight birth soil. Red brick buildings echo
the song of the trespassing engine
as it slips past sound sleepers,
heading east.
Roger Singer 