Middle West
Oil on the wind from the cold East,
Metal in the voices of men with straight backs
Stepping off of the train
Onto our wincing soil,
The valleys hold their breath,
Stony throats quiet before the fall of the frontier.
Morse code SOS from old-growth fireflies,
Steady march of seasons, old heartbeats
Drowned out by the thrum of pistons pummeling the pride of his hands
And the electric hums stealing substance from the darkness of his night.
What will happen to the ones we used to be able to make time for?
Will we have time to wonder about them?
Time to find ourselves in a mood to understand?
To understand ourselves?