The Linear Model

Your last nightfall in the Great Basin,

where gamblers skin out and whiten

like clockwork. Where cold is lips

curled back and the wind is molars.

Where there’s mercury, and greased dark

comes on like an express train from Reno.

Someone you scarcely know has tied you

down on the tracks, made sure the ropes

were not too tight, but tight enough. Now he’s

gone and, strange, you’re lonely for him.

Nobody ever tried to make you famous.

The train roars applause.

You’re in the spotlight, the white

tunnel of its travelling. Engines and

their single‑minded momentum. Night is

a vehicle of regret. Dazed cattle cars

and heavy machinery into the dry heart,

hurtling. Your long impatience over.     

This is your life, the back page

of your local newspaper between ads

for furnaces and vacuums. Someone cuts out

a neat rectangle with its misspellings. All

you wanted, to be loved like this. He lays you down

in a drawer with stopped watches. Forever.