After permission slips, the railroad man
shows us the video, the lights in the library
turned low. I can’t see the bodies meant
to scare us straight. The shots are too dark,
like root cellars, canned beets wet in the corner,
always eaten last, and not as real as afterbirth
or the innards of deer, steaming in winter.

They tried to beat the train, and that’s
his head off in his girlfriend’s lap, he taps
the glass. Some girls croon gross. We know
the rules and aren’t so stupid to say otherwise. 
Trains stop us every day, often going backwards
through town halfway, the bells in urgent red,
crossing loving arms over the coal. Sometimes
the dark will play tricks on your mind.