too fast,
the train is off
the tracks.
the whistle silent.
the steam
and gristle of the stack
seeps
what's left of embers,
black coal.
the passengers are strewn
across the cinder,
the engineer is dead.
the sky is an awakening blue.
birds
are still flying.
I pick myself up, dust
myself off, grab a bag
and go on,
this is what I do.
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