A poet,

 lost in words, sits on a train’s

deluded rails that seem to converge

like wrinkles on his hands and face

 - before and back - through time and space.

Avoiding headlines

but chasing a hunt

for every letter

 - like sperm - in word - and sound.

Riding rails,

narrow minded,

cliché trip

up a track:

wondering and gazing,

secretly alive