Gnarled wood doorways off the
beaten path of train-track lullaby’s
that carve their way through the land with a breathless hum
and the gnashing of metal on metal.

Those are the places where the air is thinnest.
Where you can hold your breath and pass through
into the spaces in between.

The very tiny and extraordinarily large are but footnotes around here.
They have no foundation.
No absolute.

You are more likely to meet a carpenter than a dictionary.