/ Dead

is what they call
a torn-up track
whose living rails I jump
to bed down in the wells
and feel the thud
hit every trestle
steam at dawn
like horses at
the track I trained
before the fillies
foundered sick they fired
the agents vets they fired
the riders me I love
how in a well you thrum
with sound until your bare
lips start to bleed like can
isters of oil I stole inside
the train you’ll find a nation
what it wants to eat
and wear and what
it likes to buy a ring
a phone some jeans a porsche
there is no reason why to jump
a train except to lose
the edges of your self
the time like pacing
Moxie at the track that speed
that almost tears
your hands off at
the wrist she was
the last to go her tendon
bowed and worth less
than insurance no one
rides a racehorse just
for pleasure no one
hops a train if they can take
a plane a car whose engine
speed is gauged by horses kept
alive in memory
for sentiment I guess
there’s ghosts
of what we were and are
we cannot bear to leave
out in the desert where
I’m going home just not
right now I said of Moxie
not right now before
the race she hasn’t many
left in her you know
she trusts you right
the owner said
then slipped me
two grand and the shots