The silver tracks that race ahead divide

The maize before they reach a point

Of no return.  On either side

Stand spear-tall ranks the rails have left disjoint.

I take the ties in stride.

 

But walking down the line, and reeling in

The wire turning poison green

Reminds me where I have not been

Yet—farther than that point that can’t be seen

Beyond, no matter when.

 

And though a groundman-grunt, I see the soil

That grows these silent stalks of ears

As dirt that means some farmer toils.

The kernels rise, but no one talks—or hears;

The line lies all in coils.

 

(And fills the boxcar full with toxic fumes.)

If I were spurred, then I might climb

A pole some day to gauge what dooms

These tracks to meet, their trains to run on time.

Till then, each cropped row looms.

 

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