POEMS FOR NOONE  

Train

Crowds hurtled by a velocity they can not see;
the moon rose that night without a sound
as we rode the train through walled cities 
where the finer artists wrote graffiti and old men smoked,
called the moon crazy;

Limber souls laughed and told the man to get lost; 
"this guys a loon, he's nuts," just as faces moved ceaselessly through
the station with festive air in the night, a kind of celebration.