But Not Much More

Brother I still see you plum-eyed

pulling train cars from the air,

self and sound spun: no recital,

no bureaucratic destiny, no

masque or known progress, though

now you are penned in measure of

some blind and brilliant precision

—perfect bearing brother no less

collapsible, no truer than the tracks—

& here we have both found a formula

for loss and come up short, but know

that every hour the whistle goes,

those old stakes do their shaking

away, like some come up for air.