the trestle

you have engineered a blueprint

for traveling west,

you lay down iron 

and wood,

light the dynamite,

force yourself through 

jagged mountains,

for you,

there will never be enough smoke 

to fill the pink horizon,

as for me,

i can feel the barons 

snatching up landscape,

i sense the pleasure they take 

in pressing lit cigars 

into the map at my feet,

subtle suggestions flake 

from the fiery coal 

they shovel down my throat, 

i tell you 

that sometimes a train must leap 

from the trestle

just to strive for its freedom,

weightlessness hides
in the air,

it wants to whisper the soot 

right off of my cheek,

as for you, 

you won't let go of my hand,

you keep pressing down tracks,

you tell me 

that gravity is a governess

who will protect us both

as long as we keep 

to the earth