'things don't change, but by and by our wishes change' - marcel proust
this roiling maelstrom
3am and enthroned again
this lowest cacophony.
when we were kids we threw glass bottles
at passing trains
and the sound it made
like this roar inside my head.
remember -
put your ear to the cold rail
and hear that deadbone rattle.
it is the haunted language
of steam engines abandoned
in wilderness left to die.
and snowflakes like clean nickels falling -
it is not winter. not spring.
watching my old man hands and waiting
on my own black wildness
for something to happen.
keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.
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