your panic attack in Wyoming you told me
was tidal and unremitting.
the soil was insensitive, and sky covered everything.
in the land forgotten, arthritic, and delirious
were tie, rail, spike, gravel,
and the gandy dancer was a prophet in his own right.
every rail he brought ’round he spoke to a nation
giving voice to the land he was birthing.
his sleeves were smokestacks, his shirt a buttoned furnace
and he murmured his oracle in song- in leathered hands-
to shorelines, ghostlike coasts, the islands, the winds:
like all true prophets he spoke and still speaks to the winds.

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