does the last of Culpepper’s coal train still shimmer somewhere,
and by the tracks, do grackles do their three-toed pirate’s dance?
are jackdaw girls in black and white still putting quilts on ponies
in a field nearby, and has this image burnished itself glorious sepia?
in the long moment, a shadow lags behind its screen door’s
slamming shut, late even for its own clamorous closing
in the long moment, girls, cheeks blown bright, dream
themselves in the arms of knightly Percevals, but are they real?
time’s bailiff knits together these fresh threads of narrative,
spun from the frothy wake a moment leaves behind itself
a flash of his needles and his meddler’s yarn forms an image of
hollow-eyed gamines watching the spill of boys into a game room
this falling into time means the past is rising fast towards you—
you are headed for a place where a moment can really rest