Who fixes the machines
when they are buried in the deep
dark ground? The night, the train
is endless another unbroken
line that can never stop long enough
to read the faces in the windows
like fingers smoothing down the folds
of a coat feeling the weft
and wanting to go deeper,
or a drop of water, alone,
at the top of a tower of glass.
Let’s not name the ways
our hands have touched the dirt today.
I’d rather focus on the grass,
the Chinese tea and not the past.
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