self in 2015

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 paperback,

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

ramble by.


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.


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