The allure of distance. Something beyond reach I can never know. Trains rumbling over rust outside my window. Engines startled into going nowhere fast. How long

have I been here, listening? What songs remain possible to sing? Ant hills and galaxies are assembled every day. But the mind is slow to catch up.

It is busy determining itself in the mirror of its name. How quickly it forgets even that when, rushing off into the horizon

after time, the afternoon is found idling into the grey.