what’s in a name?
i am like tram, in the sense that
i am a word that isn’t very popular in describing a locomotive
dropped upon the dictionary floor, an
approximation of an idea that’s fallen out of vogue
i love in a railroad track,
four points in a rose,
cling to a boxcar and wait
to not stick to the steel, and listen:
may i find my sentence,
make my bed in a paragraph
(there are books who love me, catch me but still miss)
a lookout onto trees,
one day, they hope.
all the same, read my name.
there is a story who loves me.
who’s in a word?
i wish it wasn’t me—
boxcar walls aren’t good for a body—
and i’d rather no body than a bed.
rather you not see me,
rather be more tram than train,
so i can watch the other words
what’s to blame,
this trolley girl
who wishes more towards idea than not
should lust to touch the pines, the air
iron horse of irony?
i would sigh,
my world shivers,
shudders past my love
for a more godly body
and yet, smiles back.