About the second whiskey in
my guards depart on midnight trains,
and fell the station of refrain,
wherein, wherein, wherein

I start to clamber back to tracks,
where sleepers step with railed regret,
and for a moment I forget
the lack, the lack, the lack

of fastened steel that’s tried and true;
it courses in pursuit of bends
that buckle at the force you send
into, into, into

my wheels-for-feet that grip the turn,
knock loose the rusted threads and heads,
chase down the straights for those who fled;
Return! Return! Return!


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