Squeaky ache of squat wheels on cold steel track
departing near dawn with breath amber haloed
by vapor light from green poles of an earlier time,
a journey begins on rails ended by bolted plates:
there is only one direction in which to travel now,
south to the city of mausoleums and white stone.
The posted grid announces a three departure limit,
there are no good clocks for leaving smoky warmth-
all three hands are dark antique before the sun,
blue vinyl seats split in spots to soiled foam,
frosted cornfields grazed by shadowy deer
near grey tracks bent by the crescent moon.