The whistle splits open spitting out
hot seeds. The thin grasses ignite.
At the far end of the field loaded
with quicksilver the wild horses are running.
We have thrown ourselves face down
against the asshole of the embankment
which shudders & detonates under us.
The wheels of the night freight roll
over our heads. Its cars vanish
into the dark. It has suddenly grown cold.
We are standing ankle deep in loose gravel,
the prairie stretching away coldly on all sides.
As we step out of the shadow
onto the bright moor flooded by moonlight,
I notice that a thin cut has opened
vertically in my father's throat
through which he utters the low cry of an owl.
--from Slow Newsreel of Man Riding Train, by Robert Nichols (City Lights Books, 1962)