Sightseeing

Posting...

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Our train tumbles through
A billowing quilt
Of freshly plowed fields.
Pylons rise from the black dirt,
Like spires from buried churches,
Hauling 3-phase power lines off to some
Ridiculous vanishing point.

Our train rolls in to
Some town.
A small brick house teeters
On the edge of complete obscurity,
Empty and dark, at the station.
Joining in its own abandonment
Has left unhealable scars
Etched in its mortar.

We move on,
To some new sunken betweenness.
The sun has set and left us
A charred night to burrow through.
Our windows have become mirrors.