As the Train Rolls Through, I Remember an Old Poem
Charles Wright
Well, here we are again, old friend, Ancient of Days,
Eyeball to eyeball.
I blink, of course,
I blink over ten thousand times.
Dear ghost, I picture you thus, eventually like
St. Francis in his hair shirt,
naked, walking the winter woods,
Singing his own song in the tongue of troubadours.
