Day 7

After the meet, on the Metropolitan,
pencilling a moleskine with metanoia
well-nigh the edges, only words adrift.
Another night journey with small pressed
pamphlets, the smell of sallow paper
where boundaries are redefined
a solenoid flux pulls beyond reach,
worn by the rub.

The train storms on by sidings and fences
with their trawl of plants, spliced with iron
spikes. The journeyman still shunts
the careful text across the lines.
Vain, repulsive, this jaundiced need to
reach deep the past masters' thorax
rip a rib, coax it to living proof
else it is just bone,
only bone cremains.