Rogue Valley Grand Central Station
a hummingbird has made
a surprising home
in the pocket of my coat
seems like so long ago
I'm not sure now
what I wrote back then
so many stories derailed somewhere on the line
the twisted tracks, the scholar's stacks
the altar cracks
the morning sun over the station
flooding the shadows with light
refracted through skyscrapers
and terminals; a garden of grey
a place can become you
its pulse becomes your own
it will melt you down
then build you up
my mind is covered with burrs
gathered along the trail
I can't shake them free
now her lungs are full
and she is calling for me
