The Huntress

Watching ghost trains move through the space between an early morning and a late night,

an empty station bleeds out sterile, white light,

evoking a moth-like longing I haven't felt in ages,

burning slowly, like a smouldering lump of anthracite.

There was always a train, a plane, a long cab ride,

Long city blocks taken with long city strides,

Days that melted into nights that melted right back into days,

Sleeping until the residue washed away,

dripped down to the bottom of the hourglass.

Or is it more like a Clepsydra,

A modern, misshapen replica,

measuring the literal flow of time?

Yet, stealing away the hours now,

never seems to work, somehow,

and always ends up feeling like a crime.