New moon on a clear night
in November does not bleach
glass to silver, but settles darkness
here, where the two-train railway
that runs through the valley

bisects the sealed
road that collapsed its steel vein.
In a fuller moonlight
neat silver might belly the clouds,
gild slips where wet
surfaces mirror the sky, maybe.

The creeks, cleared
here to drain the swamps, could
enmesh the ground in thin light

while the trees anchor themselves
each to their own impermeable
thicket of shadow.

In the full moon’s hard light,
rails and water would shine,
rain be a glistening afterthought — but
under cover of new moon,
pulling up, the tracks
twist themselves out of the ground
into such shapes
of metallic logic as
no human mind could bear.