this night
the coal train's whistle comes
thin and lonely, wandering
through midnight sleep
my arm reaches up
fingers almost touching
the sound of gone.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
poetry and politics and assorted odd things
2 comments:
Hi Sherry,
What a terrific image. I'm there. When the poem is done--it's gone. Nice.
Yours,
Rus
hi, glad you like this. it is a favorite of mine.
Post a Comment