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The not-too-faraway train
horns out its linear existence
and barges through the hot night air
like a strong thought scraping clean a
cluttered mind.
And all things become relative
among each other,
and exact among themselves:
the cars on the parkway,
the grass on the lawn,
the baby in her crib.
Again, the horn descends
louder and more self-assured,
and splinters, in its wash
the whole house
squeezing through cracks in glass,
pouring in under the eaves;
as a fast wind enters and
volleys round from window
to chair to floor to kitchen cabinet
and rudely then out the back door,
taking with it its cloak of declaration.
Silently, the house still trembles.
The cars, stopped at the light, grumble.
The grass calms and returns
to its business of growing.
And the baby cries,
and she cries and cries.
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