Poem for G.C. Waldrep
Joshua Marie Wilkinson

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.