The room seems even
smaller in the wake of
the wailing train, that long
sad drawl and the rumble
that leaves me thinking
relativity experiments and
Folsom Prison Blues,
here in the age of ashtrays.
Here at the equation’s end.
All your star signs and night
passages, your tea leaves
full of expected dread
wash up on this shore,
this locked room
empty even of the mystery.
This sentence served.
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