of a distant train blowing and you know that great big
black iron horse is charging this way though still unseen
behind the hill. No need to rush, but it’s coming now,
the horn is blowing for you to hear--a shrill wheeze in
the wind, the sound not yet piercing your skull but you know
it’s time to stand up, gather your things, prepare for boarding.
And the sound keeps getting louder,
like the high groan of yard dogs pulling on their chains
and yet there is a pleasantness there, a kind of promise
when your heart dares to listen. But still, how can you
ever be at ease, how can you ever rest with that horngroaning louder in your ear?