This Train

From car to car, a release, as of dangerously
held breath–The brakes, you say–we

begin again.
                      Again the glass, in its steady

abrupting of one vision for another one as
swiftly, as relentlessly abrupted, reminds

what I keep forgetting to understand–how
many things of this world exist merely

                                                     to be

got past:
              the skinned landscape; across it, all

the hooved lives reduced to the one shuffle
in hard country;

                         the occasional hawk, but
none flying–

                each seemingly more affixed
to than settled on this sidelined plow, that

fence-less fencepost … Here was a farm or

Here a field

                   –until what?

                                    Against boredom,
restive, we play games like Name This Train.

I choose Wanton Disregard; you choose, as
always, Train of God–

                                you say, Everything
is God’s
.   The news, for easy enough miles,

is good; you will never know me; it won’t be
yours to fill, ever–this sweet, failed life.