Where the Feeling Deserts Us

I wake somewhere on the outskirts of Portland.

The crickets are singing. The train is refusing

to breathe. Off in the distance a truck gears down

on a service road bordered in trees. The river

beside me, babbling kind. Headache. Earache.

All I can see of the field dissolves in a stale white blanket

of moon. Nothing moves. Even the cold machinery

seems to be riding itself in a dream.

Sliding away from the steel retainer walls.

Boxcars stalled on the next four strings. The train

is my shepherd. I finger a dead leaf. Star-lights dance

in the field beyond my cage. We are never returning

to the field itself, only the mystery hidden inside.

Night after night in the speed of your leaving.

Soft of your veined hands tracing my thigh.

The flavor of dust where the feeling deserts us.

Maybe the blonde heads of needlegrass swaying.

Bodies of cows in the next field over. I pull up the blanket

to cover my bare arms. Cool air filled

with the pressures of falling dew. This is the best

I can give for a reason—the metal accepts you,

whoever you are. The train you are riding will only

go forward. The straight line is perfectly clear.