Most of the
stations are no longer marked,
their faded wooden signs hanging at an angle by a single nail.
The tracks cross meadows and run a narrow course
through dense green forests before
into transient time itself, the earth spinning backwards
while the sun retraces its sidereal steps.
I am young again when the train
next to a silver-tipped stream,
its waters again flowing to the sea, not away from it.
Calendar pages disappear in accordance
and you are sitting, as always, on the edge of a dream
that always ends abruptly for this crazy old fool.