South east of my bedroom,
four of five miles off,
trains from the yard
begin their journey.
Where to, I do not know.
These trains tear through
the blackblue mornings
screaming their typical
train sounds—wailing
whistles and wrenched
wheels grinding in
clattery harmony
against the rails.
Of all the fascinating
mechanical components
and historical uses of trains,
I remain ever curious
about their destinations.
—N.A.
Mouth Thorn 