When you are working
Like a child counting hairs upon his father’s chin,
you forget that moment
the losing of the dirt-specked floor
to the round bell of a clock’s pendulum.
The guard that lays his lower lip upon arriving trains
taps your shoulder, looking you over,
passing into darkness.
My soul staggers, the train rambles on,
the mountain wind chasing it through and its concealed shadow
is as loud as wood
when I knock it with my hands.
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