Hold Up

Back of the orange sea of night
something is happening.
someone waits
in an alley for dawn,
but we both know
(don’t we, shadow man?)
waiting is a disease.
the asphalt is strong
and has had its peak,
the pieces are racing,
screaming through the streets
in the middle of the night,
they are just playing
god and sundry others.
“Where the hell were you?”
wild trees down by the railroad track
want to know as trains come running
down the darkness
shaking their bodies up,
running them through
all different kinds of ways,
one after combustible another.
and then all these things
fall asleep to hide
from the horrible
sun and find
small corners
that will take them
in, that will
have them.

Behind, Before

I live in a place where the trains still come through.
Beyond the night, beyond daylight they go,
but carry few people anymore. We can be
virtually anywhere in virtuality in microseconds,
but the brute back of the world, its metals,
sugars and meats, cannot. We still need
iron, manganese, even a fund of chrome
for our bodies. These move in foods that move
the way they did centuries past, the way
those centuries moved. Heavy. Slow. Clank clank.
The future doesn’t brake for the past.
That’s
the grandiose thought. But if you listen carefully,
behind the trees, behind in general, you’ll realize the past
doesn’t brake¬†for the future either. Something’s always
coming on from each direction fast, and either force can kill you
if you’re not the sort to pay attention.