In the snow the train echo tunnels
or maybe it's what's coming
or maybe it's your inner ear
troubling you again.
In the leftover lamplight the whites
of dog eyes brighten wild
or maybe she smells what's coming
or maybe she's just a morning dog.
In the hours before what's coming
the neighbors catch themselves preparing
losing faith in their trundling trains
their city on its elevated track
sounds tragic in its tomorrow humming.
Feb 1, 2011
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