three in the morning

Three in the morning,
The trains roll by.
I lay awake, their lonesome call
Spanning the dark miles of sleeping ground,
Drifting over bracken
And November frost,
Alive in the stillness, and howling with it.
In my little room
The ghosts of headlights
Pass through the window,
Search the empty walls,
And pass on. . .
For lack of dreams, I watch them move
And wish that I was moving, too,
And more than an echo
Of train cars.


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