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Hidden Springs, Delicate Wheels: Poem To Be Placed At Lincoln's Tomb
The train that is draped in black mourning
carries his coffined, murdered flesh westward,
westward from the promise of morning,
into the evening of History,
into the darkness of a sepulcher.
Neither the clouds of threatening storms,
nor the stillness of a starlit night,
will ever obscure his irridescent light.
Across the grazing pastures of Pennsylvania,
the locomotive's plaintive horn echoes;
its side rods clatter like smoking muskets
lately heard, before battlefields' silence;
steam escapes valves and flues to flow upward,
like souls in flight, released from murdered flesh.
