As the insensitive locomotive cries
On its servile way up mountains,
The myth of the gypsies reappears
On the lips of a nun on mission,
Alone and awake in a moonlit car,
Waiting for the conductor to call:
Billings, Billings ma’am.

A huddle of hobos lounge in freight,
Coaxing a refuse fire up against
The ferocity of November.
Time for me to ride out:

The parkway is daubed across the Chinese
Fan of whim. The chronic gusto grips
The wheel: floor it and watch the whip-
Lash of orange, bronze, goldens streaking
Like music sheets, four-barred
With notes from out of Disney.

The crease in the road paints us inland.
We listen to the inconsolable cry
Of an eagle above the tree line.

Coming back to me: a red Dodge Dart
Rounding a rural corner above the James,
No guard rail, just the long, steep way down
To the tracks of the C & O.

It’s my sister and her boyfriend
Smiling in the front seat, her hair flying
While I lean out the back and stare
At the swarthy brawn of the current below,
Thinking about how easy it would be
To disappear for good
In the hunger of its surface.