Grouped in the dusk at the station, blameless
and undaunted behind the burn of one shared cigarette,
this circle of children, their wronged can of animate garbage,
its wrappers aloft like some clipped language around their
   shaved heads.
The stubble's sharp under their soft palms—they touch it
and touch it, as if they'll become easy with absence.

Beyond where I'm walking in the dry autumn street,
I watch their close shuffling, immaculate and strict,
how they linger in the seamy waste of light
near a relic locomotive sunk in the parking lot's tar,
close to the tracks and the quaint station
where passengers cross the vanishing point of the past.