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Arbeit Macht Frei

The first weakening of night picks out telephone lines, black against sky. The eyelid of a garage door lurches laboriously up. A car coughs blue breath. With aerosols and plastic scrapers clandestine delights of frostwebs are raked to chemical sludge. Starter motors whine. Windscreens cloud with pain. Gears grind teeth. An electric train gingerly utters inarticulate from the sheds, groaning over cold joints. Thinking grimly of tunnels ahead, it flares with ill-humor crossing the points. On unworked land beside the track, a fox is heading home. Gliding through beneath the "keep out" sign, he grins at the engine, which just judders along, headlights trained on parallel lines which glint ahead, reflecting lurid signal red, extending out, but never meeting, towards the vanishing point.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017




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Date: 3/25/2017 9:20:00 PM
7! There are at least 3 levels of chill here. Michael, a profound poem and a profoundly good poem. Favorite. : )
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Michael Coy
Date: 3/26/2017 12:42:00 AM
What a delightful comment, Doug! Thank you very much!
Date: 3/22/2017 2:18:00 AM
And everywhere and nowhere light brings only darkness. Where freedom was expected, barbed wire appeared, and equality means more to one group of persons than for the other. A vanishing point is only a point of fixation for blind eyes... you never reach it. Everyone should be a fox. Our industrious zeal brought us many things, but not freedom.
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Michael Coy
Date: 3/22/2017 2:44:00 AM
Just like every other time, you have "nailed" it precisely.