Black silhouettes sit
in the silver bullet carving the evening,
their clandestine mission to decode Babel over for the day.
Commuters glide into the country past trees
and water towers,
mere silhouettes as well against a purple canvas
which is the dying of another day of
saints and sins.
Ten miles away, the city is a bar graph silhouette,
silent since tongues have wagged enough about
the latest turn of events.
The grade upon which the silver rails are laid is far above my own,
nor can I read flat midnight shadows on my
A thousand miles away, the silhouette of Earth spins the elliptical,
a commuter returning home after four
billion years of days,
and where it came from or where it is going is unknown.
Its home lies far beyond the switching
yard at the end of the line,
where three dimensions draw the soul and no longer hide or align.
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