The Apophatic

How can it not be

about engine,

secret blaze behind

the wheels? How not about

this no-way-to-resist seeing

but one side or another

since the rails quite insist

& iron's so right, always

running off its own might.

How never about freightage

or the outdoor face

in the indoor light?

A yesteryear's pall

over the day at hand? Not

about the passings-by

of nailed-shut houses

& grouse setting sail

from a rusty swing?

How not me out of uniform,

out of a sleeper's berth,

bare & barely rising

atop smoke & so little air left

in the soft underbelly

that I may meet—nay, embrace—

the hello-goodbye cloud.