Morning yawns, the sun stretches, and the train
Pitches the air with smoke, paws the iron earth,
Tracks its big city game along the coast,
Narrows the span between our birth and death.
From dreams, we, dépaysés, fall to coffee,
Orange Free State oranges, new news, fresher dreams,
Prophesying what tomes we now must read,
What names we will need, what gods we will prize.
All we can prove is the sun and the bay
And the baying hunter that is the train,
All joined in a beautiful loneliness—
Separated from our pure world of wounds,
Our globe of love (sharp nails hammered through palms),
Happening alone, as if it matters.
~ from Whylah Falls (Polestar Book Publishers, 2000)
