The train passes and I kneel to touch the creaking iron.
Expecting heat, expecting flattened pennies,
my hand — rests. There are only locusts left,
and the cool shushing of the river.
The train passes and I kneel to touch the creaking iron.
Expecting heat, expecting flattened pennies,
my hand — rests. There are only locusts left,
and the cool shushing of the river.
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A sound I miss! Not even an echo of a train in Newfoundland…