From here I see three states at once:
Virginia underfoot,
Kentucky and West Virginia
making up the vista,
all three joining hands at the Tug.
I wish you were here.
The train is passing.
It passes for a long time,
wending uphill, around the bend
and tunneling.
They live for the chug, here,
the perfect intervals.
The whole numbers hover, exact.
I’ll find it in my pocket
years from now, the train or the thought of it,
in some other state, embodied—
some carved thing
to unload at the end of all the days.
