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Poem	A poem moves forward, Like the passages and percussions of trains in progress A pattern of recurrence, a hammer of repetetiveoccurrence a slow less and less heard low thunder under all passengers Steel sounds tripping and tripled and Grinding, revolving, gripping, turning, and returning as the flung carpet of the wide countryside spreads out on each side in billows And in isolation, rolled out, white house, red barn, squat silo, Pasture, hill, meadow and woodland pasture And the striped poles step fast past the train windows Second after second takes snapshots, clicking, Into the dangled boxes of glinting windows Snapshots and selections, rejections, at angles, of shadows A small town: a shop's sign - GARAGE, and then white gates Where waiting cars wait with the unrest of trembling Breathing hard and idling, until the slow~descent Of the red cones of sunset: a dead march: a slow tread and heavy Of the slowed horses of Apollo - Until the slowed horses of Apollo go over the horizon And all things are parked, slowly or willingly, into the customary or at random places.
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