today there is no poetry in the trainscape
dirt is dirt
the slanting sunlight on swiftly passing trees sings no melody
a field of beached pines swamped in bullrushes are no eloquent statement of place and time and passage
just dead trees with their feet mucking about in the water
the view from seat 6A populates and depopulates with people or pines, sumac shrubbery or streets at level crossings
no poetry. all is what it is
obtaining no meta
on the side road, there is a stop ahead.
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