the sounds of poetry
are these engines
pressing the train
along the track

in a night of fog
and desolate cold
the bellowing whistle
lights the way

I've never felt so much as now
that I own absolutely nothing
and my poverty allows me to love
each moment with a aching sigh

it feels terribly good to live

climbing the hill
to escape the fog
with sudden clarity
stars pierce the air

I see at once
a million ways to love
in this reverence
I set forth

to try them all in succession
like counting the stars
in the quiet recesses
of a hill draped over fog

what a lovely curtain
this earthen shell is
that I am floating upon
to the train whistle's tune