Shadow rattles through dreams

of a non-trivial world—

a lattice of wires and heat exchange,

ragtime pulsing beneath

the tireless rhythm

of rails and ties.

Through this windowed trespass

of industrial apprehension,

we pass ductwork like iron lungs,

humming with function,

resigned to necessity.

We ride inoculated, immune

by the promise of arrival,

fleeing once again

the rust-backed burden,

the redbrick breath

of imposition.

Bridgeport, Connecticut