Don't dream in daylight.
Drink desires down, deep down.
Dance in their darkness.

Chipped cups containing
cold coffee. "Carefully child,
carry cautiously."

Bullets, bombshells, boots,
blasted buildings, broken bones.
A blitzkrieg bombing.

Ambled ambitions,
an aching audacity;
aged adventurer.

Well after the conductor yelled,
“All aboard,” and well after all
of the tickets were punched;
a group of people,
who didn’t know one another
were all headed north.

Little hands turned through pages
while larger ones were cupping
at the window, trying to get
a better view of the night sky.
A farmers pasture flashed by,
but went unnoticed in the dark.

A few seats down slouched a frail
grey haired lady, with her hands
clasped around a small bouquet
of daises.  And across the aisle,
towered a man who’s hands
could hold a dozen eggs.

Alone in the corner was a red
dressed woman; doing her best
to not spill her coffee. She watched
the children next to her fall
into an innocent sleep.
And ripples echoed in her fingers.

She thought about how strange it is
that everyone on a train
can be going the same direction
but have different destinations.
And then she thought about
how tired the conductor had looked.

After Henry Taylor*

On a peaceful night just as the stars had
risen and the chilled dew was beginning
to form on the grass, a set of steel tracks
resting atop an ordinary hill
began to hum with warm vibrations as

a steam-powered engine came towards them,  
pulling along an assortment of goods,
it came fast and came loud, breaking all of
the solitude by the hill, but perhaps
it was going too fast or maybe the
tracks were a little wet or it may be
that the train simply wanted to jump, but

just as it reached the turn atop the hill,
it leaned off its path and like a rubber
band; the rest followed, throwing to the air
everything held inside, tumbling down
the hill, splashing through the water droplets

until finally coming to a rest
at the bottom, where splintered lumber and
distorted steel had torn up earth to show
a mound of fresh dirt, riddled with gravel
and twigs, the hill became quiet once more,
just as the train whispered its final gasp
and the dew began to form on its wheels.

I remember asking my dad,
“How many stars are in the sky,”
and he said something like,
“Way too many to count.”
But I’ve counted.
And after recounting
                                      and recounting
and scribbling in my notebook
under my fathers flashlight
I can tell you that there is
indeed a number.

And to this day I prefer
reading the stars over anything.
They’re the oldest book ever written.
Space: the oldest canvas to be sewn
and the cosmos the paint of Picasso.
Each spec is its own character
each pair a set of eyes
where I can lose myself in their gaze.
A celestial connect the dots
where I collect the pictures
and pick out my favorite spots.

But when my son
is old enough to ask,
“How many stars are in the sky?”
I’ll just hand him a notebook
and tell him to read what he sees.