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by Justen Ahren
In the beginning, after the platform
after the train's coming in the station
I dreamt of other possibilities
other endings for the young mother
pushing her child toward the edge in the stroller.
I dreamt the train was delayed, took another track.
I dreamt her husband had reached her,
grabbed her arm and pulled them back.
But gray hills, and the small, stagnant water
around the yellow house by the tracks,
where the grass had grown long, and the sky
sled over steel, that steel lid of sky
doesn't allow for other endings.
I dreamt the old believe the young
not knowing what else to do
they believe, and give their dark soil,
its' plenty, which the young reap
armfuls of stalk and flower,
and the seeds which, wept on,
fall to the ground
and sprout green and green and green.