Where the Train Runs Out of Track

Dan Ames

beyond the Elysian fields in a swath of scrub oak and gravel

in the distance, a small farmhouse without windows or a door

a hawk flies overhead, with a red tail and a eye for what’s beyond

this is where you and I now stand

the railroad ties are soaked in creosote black and fissured

the ghosts of tall weeds are carried along by the wind

the silence presses on our temples, the heat smothers our skin

you and I and the glassy scent of gasoline

 

there may have been plans to keep laying track

we can almost make out the linear banks of earth ahead

a heat wave shimmers beyond the broken landscape

where you and I try to see

 

you turn and look back I was waiting for you to do it

I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t

because then the years along the way would have tendrils

viscous remnants of you and I

 

you turn back to the front and as your gaze passes me

I wonder if you look at me or if you continue to swivel

without interruption or contemplation toward the precipice ahead

neither you nor I comprehend

 

at long last the faint smile comes and I am thrilled and reassured

I take your hand and your calm acceptance like a thousand times before

the hawk is gone and a young child comes out of the farmhouse

she hears the train that is you and I