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The Depot
Joseph Dorazio

Already the locomotive of summer
has pulled away, leaving
everything less ironclad. What
approaches to takes its place

is obscured by a bend in the rail,
so we wait in an inert manner
immediacy has prepared us for.
The great trestle supports an upper air,

snows lay a tundran track across the Poconos:
winter's freight arrives posthaste
at a depot long frozen over.


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