Against the Horizon

Every hour or so a train tears in
like a trumpet, barrels through what was
once the depot, now the Jazz Hall
of Fame. The tracks ring louder than
massacre. Older than the land claimed
by force. Removal. It is a single-file
stampede with the stamina of steam, no,
coal, no, diesel. Only night knows
the plants’ pliant smolder. How muted
stacks secrete what’s barely visible
by sunset. Film that filters its sin.
The town shuts down at ten, but a single
finch beckons my window, perches
power line, preens its disheveled self.
Its feathers are primed in dust. In what
rids the parasites, & what kills us.
The sky thins into a holographic squint.
My eyes burn against the horizon.