You, middle child, held fast
by a ghost and a body—
an empty vessel
drifting, stranded by the shore.
Bad dreams, bad dreams:
every night, they
The train-smoke-trails glide back;
the train track thrusts out into the sea.
Dreams you’ve tied to red-brown sacks
fade on the shore, in varying degrees.
The explosives, black smoke that sleeps
between dreams appease the
greedy little hunger of
those gentle, deceptive ghosts.
And my darling
it stands on end.
The finish line is just