In my gut I am a train with gears
that roar. I rush away from petty noise.
I growl into night so ashen, paper floats
pressing soot upon a face to tinker
with a sleeper. I glide by houses too old,
the builders barely knew of trains.
And underneath, on rusty song-lines crossing,
singing latitude and longitude, measuring each lot
in smoots or other metrics one might fathom
Underneath, and underneath, and underneath
I clutch the land that I am stitched to.
The railway ties together.
Trains sing to the astonished dirt:
We are made of metal, we conduct the crust of earth
Shana Hill is a member of the Poemworks Collective of Boston. Her work recently appeared in Slipstream Magazine. She currently runs a business assisting writers in the publication process.