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
disappearing
into transient time itself, the earth
spinning backwards
while the sun retraces its sidereal steps.
I am young again when the train
stops
next to a silver-tipped stream,
its waters again flowing to the sea, not
away from it.
Calendar pages disappear in accordance
with rule,
and you are sitting, as always, on the
edge of a dream
that always ends abruptly for this crazy
old fool.
~William Hammett
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