VM

meadow's way

past the cattle grates

winter refracted

streaming through that grate, down

the awning, trundle and

come to rest

past

through how many hands

young once

dead boxcar

amid branches

every hobo dream, each

tubercular top-rider,

all the window-flipped

spent cigarettes

all

refracted in

cold dense enough

to carry these

slightly changed

smudged or slower

or differently-pitched

drained of lore

of local color

seen

older now