Poem for G.C. Waldrep
Without any history of night
we go towards
a bound booklet of
verse to lesson us:
Station of labors, spotlit
station of horseways
A livery,
a mole going through the mulch
apart from the shorn hands
we play.
Station beyond the
orchard ghosts, young
white mare, young
city going through us
finely like silt—us or that city
alive in treacherous
hollows for traincars more train
cars an
occasional footbridge wooded.