A bay window by the side of a viaduct.

The dark cliffing of trees behind warehouses

in the abandoned places.

Night still there all these years.

Those sentences from long ago –

untouchable as stillness curving on the

railroad tracks.

The walk forever without destination.

No place to get off an old train alone.

The victorian houses rise like smoke.

The distant McDonalds glows.


One Response to “Viaduct”

  1. David Hoffman Says:

    It is a strange thing. I can’t read this poem aloud. I think it only has meaning and feeling when I read it in my mind hearing your voice. That is the uniqueness of Edgar Oliver.

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