Through The Liquid Dark | Charles Thielman
Storm mallets on a flat roof wake me
into a surprise of being.
Outside this swung open window, thousands
of raindrops, wind-blown orange through streetlight,
become streams braided over gutters into corner pools.
Lone freight train rolling over creosote ties;
an engineer horns his way through the liquid dark.
Hungry to see his aging face in a dawn lit mirror
he palms a rain-soaked cloth brow to chin.
Storm drums his iron hut, face led
by a bright lamp on wet tracks,
this heavy rain waxed red and white
by the crossing gates and marquees of small towns.
Wet antlers between blue spruce,
the quick smoldered gleams of animal eyes
reflecting passage.