The Eight O Five

The t(rain) again this morning, sky always gray, grain cars f(lying) like blackbirds with fieldseed in their bellies. The eight o five carrying g(rain) sings like tribes when they migrated north in summer across the plains following tracks of herds. High water into trees. The lake full of rain. We say it is someone else pushing down on the lake to make it spill over its edge. While we wait the woman earth sings with the tribes, transforms herself into all things. After the train b(rush) burning, the delay of smoke in the car comes after we have passed like sound. Rain hangs fringe from earth woman’s dress. She holds the delay of truth until it comes from our mouths. Coyotes sleep on her lap, birds fly into the b(ranches) of her hair while farther down the road the black snake train wiggles behind her ear.