A Cold Forest Lament

the woods play tricks

and leave the weary

to walk home aching,

tiring with each step,

mired in a vulture’s quiet

boundary and man breaker,

jester and solemn teacher,

the land reflects

the mind of the hunter:

sometimes mad,

but always hungry

From the Hudson Line

Chatty girls

run dialogue

through the miles

—puke stories

and mistaken texts,

who is where

and Spanish wraps.

Trackside

the mounds of rubble

are overgrown,

ghosts of labor

years ago,

dreams and hard work

now unknown.

Grind of history

merciless still,

but we power through

with power and will.