We bought a twenty acre hay field
and on the first cutting built a horse farm,
strung steel wire between the fence-posts,
watched them haul the house in on wide-load trucks.
It didn’t feel like long before there were
cobwebs latticing the rafters of the barn, ants trailing to
the pantry, the bench on the grave of my mother’s mare
arriving and then thinning with dry-rot.
We laid coins on the lip of the train
tracks bordering the property and forgot them,
flattened among the thickets of alfalfa
and the broad trunks of trees.
When I’m falling asleep
100 miles away I know the train is there,
quickening across the horizon,
the tree-limbs fracturing that light-polluted
stretch of sky. It grows lighter still.