I cannot ride the whistle of wind out of the station.
He had a feeling for vast things that come and go.
He came from a small country with one train station.
Today, like yesterday, work will be taking a train.
The other constant change is passing Bliss Street station.
The 7 train rattles my window at all hours.
A window is not a station. A window is a station.
My poems, I realize, have a weakness for definitions.
Definitions are a quick stop at a small station.
I could compare my love to many awful things.
How else to wait out the long wait at the last station?
Wait, Jee, though the winds blow hard at this elevation,
wait till iron time pulls in and stops at your station.