The windows' polished grit tempers
each rider's reflection. This long missile,
with its stripe of light and faces,
never rising above the tree line and villages
it passes. Graceless hammer, urgent
as compulsion, fired down
dissolution's iron track. Meteor-bright
above the salt marsh, the wheels'
harsh ratchet like a staccato cough.
Raw whistle that wants to summon
the dead to witness this cabin of souls
fingering the lies that flesh encourages.
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