Ghost Trains

I came to a stop

Slow in the land

Of ghost trains

Empty suitcases

Strewn

In lines of heather

Soft as I ran

And my fingers

They licked up

Every piece of yesterday

In this barren dust land

And as I pushed down into pocketes

That I'd wished would never end

I knew the place existed

I knew

Some hand had placed

Each

And all

Of the floral hand painted

Deep green oak handled

Sweet silk lines suitcases

Yet the question I asked

In this barren dust land

Was

Which man

Had named these roads?