In a simple geometric, red on white
brick, free standing station, a way point
hither, beyond the scraping shadows
white swaying trees like carcasses,
dangling skeletons strung up, pasted
together in Papier Mâché, painfully
pinioned by some jokester, reproaching youth.

Between the rails, wind and salt stained
grass daubed by an itinerant artist
hired by a circus passing through, tiller
by trade with high aspiration,
perspiration drenching every bicycled
tread, fletching serious Farmen,
rubber footed, tip-toeing, craning.


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