This Train

This is the train that circles the sun,

set on a single direction.

Memory has no beginning on this train,

and though I've made my nest in the straw and dirt of an ancient car,

a home in motion never feels like one.

There is no deer trail here, only deaf rails.

The way behind no longer exists except in my longing.

The way ahead is obscured but always near,

like a huntsman and his hounds and so I run while lying still.

This train is containment and escape, a snake eating its tail.

I began helpless but grew strong,

believing the power in my body drove all motion.

I began foolish but wounds made me wiser,

and though I've been quick as winter light and now slow as March thaw,

the train keeps its pace and me with it.

I have leapt and spun in circles and still I rode the train.

Now I sigh and slowly sink to my straw, 

the passing scene softer but filled with phantoms.

My life has been pursuance of prey and sidestepping of traps,

but always, the familiar yet foreign, perhaps imagined

headlong terror of the train.

________

for Sunday Muse #151.