Crossingby
taterbugComment by posthumous: I love the skewed perspective and odd POV. I have a poem with same title.
Crossing
This is the chorus.
The crosses are here. Arise.
Telephone poles are not a coincidence.
Someone familiar has not seen you.
She turns around. The meaningless symbol
breaks your heart. Your imagined world
is attacking you from pointed spaceships,
like rain squeezing through a window.
This is the chorus.
The crosses are here.
The telephone poles are real.
A trainyard of pieces of trains
and pieces of track. They go.
You merely continue. You are inside
a whole train. You are so sure
that you are parallel to your life.
But the crosses are here. Rise.
This is the chorus.
The telephone poles died for a reason.
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