I am chasing these trains and clouds
like little kids do,
the fright of loosing something in the distance:
bird tails,
sunlight,
traces of sky,
people.
Clouds are like the ghostly tails of gold fish
lingering-
caught fingerprints on the glass,
waving transparent
against the stillness of the sky,
and the carcasses of old citrons
lie abandoned like the husks
of cicadas in summer.
Roads meet and diverge
and tunnels give way to
scattering swallows,
as I continue chasing
these woven phone lines,
these empty train stations,
until the train breaks off,
and I stare out the back door
at the passing tracks.
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